A distant drum beat, like a faint pulse locked deep inside my aching pineal gland…gradually rising in volume, then sharp and crackling shards of treble soaked guitar creep out…my room goes boom as beautifully full and massive bass and drums, almost worthy of an iron support bra, drop out of my speakers and sink through the wooden floor and into the haunted basement where the dark ones reside.
This is one big devil-fucker of a track, a thirty minute trollsong that takes the best elements of fine American experimentation and proceeds to send post-rock through a doom laden journey down the darkest and dampest of worm tunnels to icy Tartarus, where death personified awaits. BAS are a Chicago based bunch of sonic buddies and include notable musician and producer Sanford Parker on vocals and guitar. This track, which has actually been out a year now, is actually constructed from various separate recordings made in 2005/2006 and is glued together in the studio to form one big super track. And it works.
After about ten minutes of powerful Neurosis-esque striking and churning of guitars, with great noises whistling in the background like electronic winds blowing across the face of Earth circa 3000 AD, the maelstrom dies down and we hear the gothic tones of a bell chiming somewhere in the distance, maybe far out across the fog blanketed sea towards the steep rocks of the shore. Then BAS crash in with full on post-crust metal power, Sanford (or could it be Brian Sowell the bassist) screaming and roaring like a wounded chieftain. The riffing here is almost slick, so urgent and aggressive, driving the machine forward. The drumming of Bill Daniel is a real joy to hear, such a big fucking sound, it fills my whole cottage and rattles the old windows like a storm. Then I hear nothing, a near silence, save for a whisp of quivering space noise a la Hawkwind 1972.
Seventeen minutes into this deathly quest, huge cymbals and eerie guitar are splashing and bending. Great slow chord changes thwack across the room like a harpooned interstellar whale diving towards a red sun, drums hit as hard and mean as big Bonzo himself. And almost constantly in the background – the wavering electronic cosmic whistle so beloved of any true space rocker. This would lift off the top of your head and rape your consciousness if you were on those little yellow nippled mushrooms that grow near cow shit in Autumn. Hee hee. ‘Ghost’ rises to a majestically spectral climax as hoarse screams tear from Sanford’s parched throat like great gobs of ectoplasm. Then it ends. You’re heart stops. You’re dead. I think its time for some pickled onions and a noggin of cheese.
Scribed by: Adam Stone