Ridden with stinking cliches, The Black Angels' fourth is a hackneyed psych trip
If it’s tomb-heavy stoner psych rock you want, pickings are rich. [a]Black Mountain[/a], [a]Dead Meadow[/a], [a]Wooden Shjips[/a], [a]Sleepy Sun[/a]… a strong field leaves little space for [b]Black Angels[/b]. Their fourth album has none of the witchy class that makes these others so compelling and comes off like a painfully hokey play-act. Listening to the title track is like watching a made-up band play a film club scene as oil-lamp projections swirl around, a hot blonde girl has a bad trip and our hero realises that the hippy dream is, like, a LIE, man. And if you have a song called [b]‘River Of Blood’[/b], it should be soul-blanchingly terrifying, not a flimsy [b]13th Floor Elevators[/b] pastiche. A phosphene is a vision of light; it’s also a gas that smells of rotting fish.
Click here to get your copy of The Black Angels’ ‘Phosphene Dream’ from Rough Trade Shops.