Nashville power-psych trio All Them Witches came back this year with one of their heaviest and possibly most philosophical albums yet – Nothing As the Ideal. The album’s title suggest either that there is nothing ideal out there, or, as I suspect, nothingness / emptiness / stillness is the ideal. It’s what we should all dwell in at least a few minutes a day to remind us that the moment around us is the only thing there is. All Them Witches make this point by flattening you with rock.
“Saturnine & Iron Jaw” has a title like a Heavy Metal comic and hits as hard as, well, iron. It begins with creepy synths and bells, bubbling like a cauldron about to come to boil, which the song does with metal riffs that would make make many bands jealous. Singer / bassist Michael Parks, Jr. sings about higher forces of perception and nothing as the ideal as the “gentle hand of confusion” leads him back to himself. “Enemy of My Enemy” chugs along with the best doom bands out there as Parks warns us to beware his power and drummer Robby Staebler puts down serious, serious fills. “Everest” is a guitar solo from Ben McLeod that lasts just over two minutes and gives us time to breathe (and admire his playing).
The loops of someone saying hi to their friends or relatives at the beginning of “See You Next Fall” is downright creepy, and the synths that go with it are something out of a horror film. Soon, Parks is asking if he “should lay the hammer down” as he lays down a wicked bass groove. “The Children of Coyote Woman” continues the “Coyote Woman” saga that has been told across multiple ATW albums by now. It covers one of the band’s favorite topics – mythology and tall tales.
If you believe Douglas Adams, then “41” is just short of the answer to life, the universe, and everything. ATW might be looking for the answer amid their shredding riffs and thunderous drumming, but they also might not want to know it. Sometimes the mystery is better, and could mere mortals truly comprehend such knowledge? “Lights Out” chugs along like a barely controlled eighteen-wheeler hauling a tanker of gasoline while being chased by a werewolf motorcycle gang.
The closer, “Rats in Ruin,” is over nine minutes of simmering psychedelia that puts just enough reverb on Parks’ vocals to make them sound like he’s a ghost living underwater singing about the inevitability of death and the folly of worrying about it. The song almost fades out and then builds back up into a soaring, majestic track with McLeod’s guitar flying over you like a roc and Staebler’s drums roaring like a bison herd.
The album gives you a lot in a short time, leaving you with more questions than answers. The questions are ones of self-exploration, however, and, if you come up with nothing at the end of the search…Well, that’s ideal.
Keep your mind open.
[It would be ideal if you subscribed.]
