Emil Amos' Holy Sons mourn the demise of their last vestige of optimism with a quite definitively miserable fourth album, jam-packed with Portland, Oregon despair and futility. Good value! With 13 sketches lasting a half-hour, its beauty is that somehow it avoids self-indulgence, each cameo crying, making Knut Hamsun look like Ken Dodd, then drifting politely away. Sliding between slurred whispers and a sighing falsetto, he reaches emotions the dreary latest Lambchop opus didn't. Between "anxiety", "paranoia" and "compromise", he peaks with, "I stare into the empty nothing left-just some dust, and some cold". Is this alt.country, or so bleak it's genre-less? He craves relief, if only he could get up off his bed and walk. Makes On The Beach sound like "Beach Baby".
Emil Amos’ Holy Sons mourn the demise of their last vestige of optimism with a quite definitively miserable fourth album, jam-packed with Portland, Oregon despair and futility. Good value!
With 13 sketches lasting a half-hour, its beauty is that somehow it avoids self-indulgence, each cameo crying, making Knut Hamsun look like Ken Dodd, then drifting politely away. Sliding between slurred whispers and a sighing falsetto, he reaches emotions the dreary latest Lambchop opus didn’t.
Between “anxiety”, “paranoia” and “compromise”, he peaks with, “I stare into the empty nothing left-just some dust, and some cold”.
Is this alt.country, or so bleak it’s genre-less? He craves relief, if only he could get up off his bed and walk. Makes On The Beach sound like “Beach Baby”.