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THE CROOKED WHISPERS
Dead Moon Night EP

Helter Skelter Productions (2021)
Rating: 8/10

Emerging after sundown with cloak hoisted over head, creepy, kooky vamps The Crooked Whispers embark on another trip through the forests of our ear canals with a follow up to the impressive Satanic Melodies (2020) which I reviewed last time round.

Only a brace of tracks are offered here, but if you like bands such as Uncle Acid then you’ll revel in the smoky haze of this. Dead Moon Night, complete with Salem’s Lot-inspired cover art, has no pace as I envisage a coffin lid creaking slowly open to reveal a skeletal hand and two blazing eyes ready for the night.

The twitter of bats, the hoot of an owl and then a lumbering mass of confusion and Manson- family aesthetics as Chad Davis leaks gasoline from his fuzzed up guitar rolls and bong water drips from the bass of Ignacio De Tommaso, both in turn lubricating the cold passageway so as to provide easy entry for the suspenseful percussive taps of session drummer Jose Frontera. The trio then draw back the curtain for Anthony Gaglia to open up his seething, sneering mouth and dribble out those sick, twisted snipes.

‘Hail Darkness’ and ‘Galaxy Of Terror’ seep slowly like black ooze enveloping a pack of thirsty rats; a slow, sweeping terror engulfing a silent village, leaking from the cracks then eating the eyes of its victims. I picture ravaged corpses leaking black goo from every orifice, suffocated and swallowed by those black trippy riffs of doom.

‘Hail Darkness’ chimes the bell, a crow caws and moonlight is swallowed by grey, wispy clouds as the black, cloaked figure flitter on the cobbles. Their only soundtrack is this gloomy psychedelic haze of smog and the booming yet spectral voice of the fog.

There’s no real variation, just damp, thickening dollops of rolling mist as ‘Galaxy Of Terror’ begins its descent from the mountains like a trudging troupe of sniping terrors. The slow-motion trepidation is scary stuff – Jose Frontera barely moves his body, just clubbing down hard on his bloodied skins to the timely judders of Ignacio De Tommaso’s bass as Chad Davis’ riffs work their way into another occult ceremony between the ancient stones.

Of all the current “doom” vocalists doing the rounds at the moment, Anthony Gaglia’s are right up there if only for their genuine evil presence and smirking arrogance; his tone making him cult leader extraordinaire as the members spill from their black church and into the streets like famished extras from the 70s movie The Omega Man. The pace quickens to a Black Sabbath-styled chirpy trundle, and I’m now in The Wicker Man film, joining the parade of masked figures eager for more from this mysterious band from Los Angeles, California that calls themselves The Crooked Whispers.

Neil Arnold

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