THE WOLF CHANGES ITS FUR BUT NOT ITS NATURE

Crippled Black Phoenix 13th album repeating this fusion sound by leaving for stoner-psyche shores for their 20th anniversary, taking up old titles, reworked, assembled differently to continue to make us dream.

'We Forgotten Who We Are' wolves, witch sneers, solemn monolithic entry on the piano, which rises into a heavy sound, dark rock swelling on an intoxicating post rock, a melancholy of all beauty. A musical wandering to connect with cold and hard nature, to gain height like the best Oceansize. The final solo enjoyable, moving on this doomy rise; the slap. 'You Put the Devil in Me' cuts short to the point that we would think the record was scratched; a barrel organ then Belinda distant pregnant voice, we are in paradoxes; she screams, she vociferates like this stoner guitar which vibrates endlessly. Floydian post-punk energy if it could exist with a heavy riff hot as an ember. '444' trumpet and unhealthy cinematic air, bass by Harris from Iron Maiden; a text against religion, 444 and not 666. A heavy, tribal, oriental rhythm with a caravan in the distance; a hypnotic mantra, frantic to the limit of phonic and ethnic saturation. 'Goodnight, Europe, Pt. II' for the bewitched piece with Belinda dreamlike, sad, her voice making me think of Lana Del Rey in her suave moments, the sound sticking to your skin with a Dantesque finale until the storm. The primary imprint dates from 2004; the air on a plausible end of the world, its haunting and magnificent sound that smells of Pink Floyd.

'(-)' for the instrumental smelling of Vangelis' work, in the clouds, on the immaculate peaks for the saving interlude after this provocative deluge. 'Song for the Unloved' acoustic guitar, raspy vocals like Nick Cave, vibrant spleen guitar of Anathema. Contained explosion, cinematic effect typical of Floyd, hang me (in my mind) if you don't see; from the harmonic we move on to metallic power with the pads and the guitar. Tribal, eruptive, captivating sound, put into a Dantesque trance. Halfway through and Gregorian chants, the psyche flows freely, a destabilizing jazzy sax before starting again on a hellish rhythm and its dripping whiffs of the best Floyd at its peak; masterpiece of the album. 'Whissendine' with Belinda searching for her words, a bit like Patti Smith; the Olympian sound of the keyboard starts the title with an expressive pad; dark break, psychedelic/stoner latency of a Monkey3 for the pompous, solemn air. A lyrical flight and a last slide vibration before the phrased outro announcing 'Blizzard of Horned Cats' and the piano arpeggio, an intimate atmospheric piece: no way the brutal invading fire, post-hard rock pours out all at once, delivering saturated notes and making the ears swell, intoxicating brass sounds ending in a frenetic bacchanal.

Crippled Black Phoenix did it: commemorate its 20 years of existence by covering tracks from 2007 to 2020 and make us forget the pejorative word of compilation. Essential.

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