There was something not quite right about the dream,
Something off about it at the edges.
As if it was not fully formed,
or rather had begun to decohere and drift off,
As if it’s very fabric was unsettled.
And there was a soundtrack building
Somewhere off in the distance,
A thumping tribal incessance,
(Or perhaps, he mused,
It was coming
From inside his own head)
Maybe it was blood pumping.
And interrupting from within
Maybe it was only mindless chatter
A cacophonic and empty din
A ferocious display of blackened stoner-doom from Moscow's Moanhand, who offsets moments of bleak ugliness with clean, haunting melody. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 23, 2021