Splitting in two, unveiling its portentous inferno, the sky is vaporised before our very eyes. Gone are the luxurious blue hues dictated by physical laws, now overthrown by a vastness of reds, yellows, and orange; gone are clouds of vapour from whence rain once came, now burnt to a crisp by the rancid hellfire surging from beyond. Sulphur lingers on the tongue as much as it does the air, the only taste any survivors will come to know – numbers of which shall be few – and accept as their new truth. The old world now a cinderbox of nightmares as people scurry to whatever shelter they can find, flocking underground to future slaughterhouses run by despotic messiahs, pitting their hopes on the goodness of mankind rising to the occasion. In the blink of an eye, all that once was is now nothing more than a long forgotten memory to a hostile and ruthless universe. We Are Doomed is the resounding call here, so why not exit with one last hurrah! For our last night only, Indica Blues deliver one hell of a soundtrack for us all to go out on.
No strangers to deathly hymns, Oxford doommongers Indica Blues turn their baneful gaze from the archaic world to our horrifying present: a world cascading downwards with one virulent catastrophe after another, be it natural, manmade, or a sinister bastardisation of both. With your ear to the ground, rumbling at unprecedented frequencies, it becomes clear they have assimilated with our impending demise, foretelling each wave of devastation in their cataclysmic riffs and gas-fuelled psychedelia with startling immediacy; so finely-tuned is their understanding, so streamlined and direct their approach on We Are Doomed, the proximity of their omens to such events can only be close at hand. But nestled within their visions are tremors birthed only by the kind of low-end fuzz known to send droves of underground denizens into a raucous frenzy; tremors which continue to rattle foundations long after the initial impact has been and gone and the fiery streaks in the sky disintegrated. Addling our brains and surging through our veins, these tunes instill in us a lust for living long lost to the drudgery of a modern life architecture, leaving us feeling more alive than ever before.
Take ‘The End Is Calling’ and its rambunctious petrol-headed central motif for example, jovially cruising through the fires it implores us to ignite, unscathed yet emboldened as it blazes a trail through the night. Or the thunderous stomp of gallant nine-minute opener ‘Inhale’ emerging from the acrid smoke with all the stoicism of a nameless vagabond, wandering the infernal wastelands to the beat of its prodigious groove before succumbing to the conflagration. Neither negating the excruciating desparation suffered around them nor losing all hope, Indica Blues march forever onwards, pushing on through the haze with an infectious merriment and even taking advantage of the flickering atmosphere, wielding its power in the bittersweet ‘Soul Embers’ with spellbinding potency. For all the euphoria their music instills, however, we are all too conscious of how we got here: ‘Scarred For Life’s punching vitriol stings exactly where it needs to, like an unwanted dose of reality hitting the bloodstream, and the anthemic title track hammers home our dire situation with a bluntness so monolithic its low-end has to fight for dominance.
There will be no accounting for life lost in the sweaty chambers the denizens will congregate when all this is over, for Andrew Haines-Villalta’s fuzzed-out reverberations alone will leave bodies rattled, let alone the stampedes they shall instigate. It’s as if Tom Pilsworth and his crew have bided their time in devouring planetary woes and converted its sickness into seven resplendantly loud marvels to knock us clean off our feet not unlike sonic booms from wars past. This isn’t some Ignorital knock-off: it’s the cure to end all cures, the perfect concoction for the shindig to end all shindigs. All realms must die, even ours, so get busy cranking up the volume and party on until it all turns to black.