Sun Q 2023
Myth
“If magical realism was music”: Eastern European tales journey Down South to where the Delta lies.
Blessed are those who think that Elena Tiron and Ivan Shalimov have risen from the muddy banks of Muscle Shoals rather than were raised on the solid grounds of Russia, but any listener is entitled to such an honest mistake upon hearing the opening cut of this ensemble’s sophomore effort. Seductive, with waves of brass which weave in and out of Ivan’s roaring guitars and Elena’s sultry vocals, “Jane Doe” goes for the jugular even when riffs dissolve in strum to reveal spiritual mysticism behind “Myth” whose nine numbers feel uneven, if spellbinding, thus befitting to celebrate the band’s first decade on the scene where genuine existence doesn’t matter because their tunes dwell in the realm of stoner psychedelia. And the tunes – delivered with a lot of gusto and panache – seem magical, indeed.
There’s something transcendentally eerie in “Children Singing” as sinister synthesizer splashes underlie Tiron’s vulnerable voice until twang and groove appear to expand into a heavy, hypnotic soundscape that will turn the faux-gospel-tinctured chant to orchestral blues further on, for “Tree” to get higher and higher in the swirl of symphonic strings and piano before Shalimov’s acidic licks mold into a soaring solo and choir elevate the song’s message to celestial heights. But while the melisma-filled “Animals” and vibrant, life-affirming “Still Searching For The Skulls” apply pop shimmer to a fiddle-driven folk dance, and the deranged “Dionysus” offers earth-splitting, cosmically chthonic jive in which vintage ivories support infectious chorus, the solemn “I Am The Sun” enchants and ensnares one’s soul via haunting harmonies and mesmeric throbbing that, again, bring forth an entire throng of singers.
Momentum might be somewhat lost on “Elizabeth Siddal” yet its Sabbathian passages and spoken word are swept away by a swampy march and desert sway – bows running across the plates, drums thundering, bass rumbling – to prepare the stage for the epic, glorious finale of “Crystal Doors” and see scintillating pulses bolster swelling dynamics of prog-rock stripe – histrionic and triumphantly tasty. Which is exactly how any myth must roll.
*****
