Sightless Pit—Grave of a Dog

Sightless Pit are as close to a supergroup as their field will allow. Comprising Lee Buford (The Body), Kristin Hayter (LINGUA IGNOTA), and Dylan Walker (Full of Hell), the band have crafted a document of abjection and hopelessness which combines and solidifies their respective strengths. It comes at the tail of two years of on/off studio time during which the artists have tinkered, tweaked, recorded and assembled stems. The rarity with which they shared studio space is impossible to hear on this record—something cohesive, beautifully engineered and, in its own way, gratifyingly restrained.

The album’s ace-in-the-hole is Hayter—an industrial/noise artist who emerged and shot to relative stardom in a very short span of time, and represents the very best of what the genres can currently achieve. Her compositional input and staggering voice elevate the material on Grave of a Dog to operatic status; and its disruption and disentegration (such as at the end of ‘The Ocean of Mercy’) serve to pull the ear even more sympathetically to Buford and Walker’s glitchier, crunchier sound.

Buford’s influence is particularly notable: a relentless, mechanical heartbeat of distorted drums which pushes forward like a dynamo, inflates the album with pressure, and gives it brittle, burning life. But no one element is more valuable than the other here. It is an album which could only have been made by these three collaborators.

The material presented on Grave of a Dog is profoundly negative—but the accompanying experiential thrill tips it into something affirmational. Like a liberation through loss, this album reaches such extremity, and throws life into such stark relief, that everything feels much simpler under its shadow.

Grave of a Dog is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Pharmakon — Devour

Margaret Chardiet's adaptation of Pharmakon to a studio setting pits the project against itself. Lauded for live shows which crumble the audience/performer boundary, Chardiet seems an unlikely recording artist. Pharmakon presents as a project living under specific circumstances, in specific spaces. It's physical, confrontational, instinctual; all the irreplicable beauties unique to live music.

Though recorded in a different room and time, Devour proves brutal enough to invade one's spiritual space. Your headphones, or speakers, become the profaned stage. Chardiet the apparition, diluted in the inches above your skin, raises goosebumps with her ferocity.

Devour owes this to a shaken-up recording process, with each side of the album committed in a single take. Room is permitted for beautiful imperfections, and Chardiet remains whole, not chopped to bits in the edit. This contributes an organic flow to the album. Tracks nudge up so naturally it's near-impossible to listen to them in isolation. The album succeeds most as constructed, in one piece. Inescapable once met, it grips like a vice then lets you go.

The downside is that previous LPs’ scaffolding is bared, their fury rendered somehow clinical. But it was a wise decision to step back. Any more bombast than present on 2017's Contact could initiate collapse into self-parody. And an emphasis on variety over volume in Devour prevents Chardiet erupting over the windshield into a sonic dead end.

Devour renews hope for a project which, in less extraordinary and committed hands, would have long since expended itself. Chardiet reaffirms her talent with a forceful sonic ejection right into her fans' faces.

Devour is ready for consumption here.

Words by Andrew O’Keefe

HIDE — Hell is Here

The history of power electronics is a cacophony of male voices. Recent years have seen the genre broaden, and welcome more alternative perspectives. That’s where HIDE stake their territory, with their new album Hell is Here.

Heather Gabel and Seth Sher, the duo peeping out from behind HIDE, explore themes of objectification, abuse and dehumanisation with a unique gothic vulnerability. Gabel's vocals walk a tightrope between Billy Joe Armstrong's iHeart Festival meltdown, and the inscrutable screaming of Pharmakon. The Baby Bear's porridge of extreme vocals, they fall into a great middle ground, in the domain of doom metal geniuses Couch Slut.

And like Couch Slut, HIDE wrap themselves around the skeleton of hardcore. Gabel's targets are clear, her lyrics no-nonsense. Sincerity and social consciousness go a long way in a genre overrun with theatricality and shock tactics.

Hell is Here swerves another noise pitfall, too. It's texturally rich, and demands to be turned up. 999 has a bassline that could as easily be mechanical creaking as a distorted vocal sample. The album's title track is rendered almost unlistenable (in the best way) by a relentless wail; half klaxon, half crying baby. The organic and inorganic collide, over and over again, with the force of a sledgehammer.

And some tracks offer respite. 'Grief' approaches industrial disco with the buoyant energy of a deep-fried Depeche Mode. Its lyrics are sardonic and creepy, with a sinister mundanity. 'Treat yourself/ you deserve it/ you've earned it' reads like something a half-asleep Mark E. Smith would have scribbled onto a lager-stained napkin (that's a good thing, for anyone unfamiliar with the man).

HIDE are living proof noise needn't be immature, boyish or mean-spirited. Hell is Here is a concise, righteous, and good-hearted release that tries to scream the world out of apathy.

Hell is Here, releasing on the 23rd of August, is available for pre-order here. Hear its first single here.

Words by Andrew O’Keefe

LINGUA IGNOTA — CALIGULA

Any attempt to categorise the work of LINGUA IGNOTA is an exercise in futility. An alias for Californian musician Kristin Hayter, it covers an overwhelmingly broad spectrum of musical styles. It incorporates baroque, noise, metal, liturgical Medieval; in short, an astonishing, almost comical level of variety. Hayter herself has tremendous versatility as a performer; her voice switching between whisper and roar at a moment's notice. But every deployment of style, every pastiche, is controlled and considered. CALIGULA is more tapestry than patchwork.

This album is more easily assessed with some context. Early in her career, Hayter migrated from California to Rhode Island, ingratiating herself with members of the island's active noise scene. It was in this scene that she suffered domestic abuse from a 'very powerful noise musician'.

Noise and power electronics are oversaturated with the contemporary equivalent of shock-rock; men who use the language of abuse to provide audiences with a visceral thrill. Many bands do little more than describe a violent, often sexually motivated attack, and punctuate it with stabs of harsh noise. CALIGULA exposes this mode of expression as dull and irresponsible — and the scene which bore it as toxic.

Hayter's lyrics are vengeful, apocalyptic, and delivered with unbearable emotion. She is possessed by her own trauma, her own rage. Noise leans very often on disgust, but there is a sort of horrific triumph to CALIGULA; like the vanguard of angels with their seven trumpets. It’s a refreshing, rare approach. LINGUA IGNOTA is shaking the muck loose from her scene. She’s invigorating it, revolutionising it, and melting everyone's ears in the process.

CALIGULA is available to purchase and stream here.

Words by Andrew O’Keefe