#swamp machine

6 track album

Review:

"Welcome to the Machine" Pink Floyd once said. I remember vividly tripping out to that song every time it floated through my speakers. The psychedelic, spaced-out and futuristic progressiveness gets me nervous to this day. Imagine if the Floyd crew were buried deep beneath the murkiest swamps of the south. Now imagine I never mentioned Pink Floyd but their rotting corpses started a band anyway. Well, welcome to the Swamp Machine folks.

You hear that? What's that smell? Over there look! The boggy smoke is rising from the chilled mire ponds. Dead limbs hang desolately above the gurgling swamp. Aghori Ritual has begun its worship, plodding slow sinister riffage. Highly intoxicated hallucinations of southern metal bubble up from the marsh popping with a stench vocal aroma. Somewhere between Hangman's Chair and DOWN the opening number displays what Swamp Machine’s debut album Mondo Magic is capable of. Webs and Spirals of heavy doom infested psychedelic stoner groove. "Am I just crazy or deeply insane?... Words and the wisdom are so hard to find.." Fitting lyrics as the Swamp Machine churns it's corroded gears into your brain. There's little hope for escape, that being the slightly up beat energy on display throughout Webs and Spirals. But the web is too sticky and the spirals to confusing to find your way to the surface of the slough. Burning Road torches the darkness with flames of malicious intent. Packed with jagged southern solos, it sounds like a pile of rotting animal carcasses smells, engulfed in a blaze of smoke. Nothing survives the Swamp Machine’s intensity. Ashes to ashes are continually absorbed into the thick rumbling mud to enhance the swamp’s already viscous texture. Gone strums desolation into its victims. Vocals echo through the sludge as bluesy chords wrap bodies with cloaks of psychotic grandeur.  Skulls whispers frightening bellows from beneath the caves of the swamp's underworld. It's now that reality sets in that reality is in fact a figment of hope. Sinister vocal chants plod behind slow fuzzed up strokes of distortion which permeate the empty brain cavity inducing a sense of comfort amongst the stained marrow zombie creations. At this point your ear canal is overflowing with 10 tons of crematory sludge. To mitigate the damage the Swamp Machine cools down it's steamy, stony stroke with a soothing instrumental lullaby. After one full cycle Swamp Machine proves it's got the horsepower to manipulate the mind and scarify the soul. Heavily tripped out southern sludge at its finest. Welcome to the Swamp Machine.