Into the shadows we go.

Into the smoke of a burnt and blasted tree.

This album deserves no name.

The music bears every name and none. And all the curses in between. Curses, loud and deep-mouth honoured, breathing from a time out of place.

All the honey is stolen from the bee, like a saviour bleeding on a tree. It has the voice of dark money and empathy.

The violin says it best: take my heart and damn the rest.

Have you ever lost a limb?

This is the soundtrack to your personal violence.

It gives the word “tonight” a new and fine imperative. This music says everything now, tonight, and never again.

The six string points prick against the stars and come settling down again; the beat beats on, blue, like an epileptic vein; strings raise a tender road, stripped down under tired eyes.

If you are hounded by easy devils and easy vices, this is the cure. Yet don’t forget that slippery doom—it is part of you, it never left, it is your virtue.

Macbeth would have cried over this album, but Lady Macbeth, well, shit, clearly she’d be laughing.

And the rhythm keeps on flowing like the blood rooted in your breast.

And this is good and this is right and this is all ye need to know.