Knives, Labyrinths, Mirrors

by Drouth

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Yann Violence is beautiful. Favorite track: Basilisk//Basilica.
flightoficarus (Metal Trenches)
flightoficarus (Metal Trenches) thumbnail
flightoficarus (Metal Trenches) Ferocious, live-sounding blastbeats, abrasive distortion, and some truly impressive snarls all strike at once like a boot to the groin. The overall atmosphere reeks of respect for classic BM acts and often reminds me of more recent albums from Taake. What you've achieved here takes most bands a few years and several releases. Favorite track: Horse Crippler.
CARPAGE thumbnail
CARPAGE Vicious as it should be, Blackest Metal powered by a drummer who drives the music to the heights of ecstasy! How this band isn’t signed to a major label is beyond me!!! Favorite track: A Shrine of Severed Tongues.
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JT EXTREME My favorite kind of USBM, an A+ certified loin crippler Favorite track: Right Hand of the Adversary.
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"On every level, this band is full of blackened fury and never lets up on the listener! I am a HUGE fan of the vocalist, whose style and delivery is totally scathing and unhinged. Musically, DROUTH knows how to write the kind of songs that pummel your skull, but at the same time gives the listener caves of sonic empathy to wander through." –CVLT Nation


released September 18, 2017

All songs by Drouth:
Matt Stikker - Guitar, Vocals/Lyrics
Patrick Fiorentino - Drums
Corey Dieckman - Bass
Matt Eiseman - Guitar

Recorded at Caravan Recordings, Portland Ore., August 2017
Engineered by Fester and Andrew Grosse
Mixed by Fester
Mastered by Ryan Foster at Foster Mastering

Cover art by Matt Stikker



all rights reserved



Drouth Portland, Oregon

M. Stikker - Guitar, Vocals, Lyrics
P. Fiorentino - Drums
J. Edwards - Guitar, Vocals
T. Wolfe - Bass

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Track Name: Horse Crippler
Dust and dusky archways stooped in the low smoking sundown/Red thrum of insects, quiet street beyond time-dappled with ruin/Pattern of the frost upon his open lips/Lying, hands outstretched, back shattered by a crippled/Horse, eyes whirling, writhing in a thicket of mesquite/Till you wake with the heaving of its pulse and the terrible certainty of its existence/A secret and subtle Judas/Wayward, grasping nail/Coiled without intent, compassion, malice, will or reason/A beckoning window, a crumbling staircase falls/Such a small spine that lames the mount/Ground’s rush to greet the rider/From a womb of stillness and ashen grit/Its birth portends infinite endings/Sunstroke, hunger, nest of hornets/Reeling at the yawning precipice/Frail lattice of causality, glass cold against your teeth/Gazing out the door across the hill, into the great howling grayness beyond/Astride a rotten tree hanging over a flooded embankment/Its branches dip the churning darkness and slip into the wash/We slip into the roaring wash.

“This is the great reward. Maybe this is the only reward. Maybe this is the final purity all ringed with filth.”
Track Name: Basilisk//Basilica
Moaning winds and burning exhaust/Desiccated husks on hot pavement/The wreckage of life deferred/A ledger of accusation/Of cicadas and dust, copulation and opulence in the breath of madness/We, the excrement of new gods and primal fears/Terribilis set locus iste; hic domus dei est, et porta caeli/So long as you endure/Ever-warping enormity/There is no courage or joy/A chaos of form, poisoning all futures, polluting all past/The great reward of filth and splendid collapse/Wrath and revulsion, our cathedral is burning.

“Esta Ciudad (pensé) es tan horrible que su mera existencia y perduración, aunque en el centro de un desierto secreto, contamina el pasado y el porvenir y de algún modo compromete a los astros. Mientras perdure, nadie en el mundo podrá ser valeroso o feliz.”
Track Name: A Shrine of Severed Tongues
Dragged across a carpet of knives slick with marrow/Blood pooling black in formless void/A tombworld of rusting arms locked in frigid lust/In the maw of restless and beguiling night/Great unmaker, face leering from every mirror/A reliquary carved in skin/What confinement more repulsive than eternal life?/Crushed in the square under a mob of torches, wrists extended/Shackled with craven pieties and desperate psalms/In this world of the wheel/Of the rack, the crown and the axe/Of brother turning ever cruelly on his sister/This oubliette, cold lungs of a breathless god/Narcissus in a pool of dust/Exquisite corpse, ragged husk, gilded and burning still/As tongues severed from gaping jaws/Lips carved in mockeries of flesh/Divorced from the divine/A rapture of ignorance and splendor/The smell of petrichor and brass/Bile and butter, rancid and black/Of orchids, asphalt, mildew and semen/Of failure flensing the pride from man forever.

“‘I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people.’ ‘That part of me is gone. Working and not succeeding—all my…failures have left me…I just don’t…care.'"
Track Name: Right Hand of the Adversary
Crawling in thirst upon the edge of a vast and barren shoreline/The spines of a hundred keels arrayed in supplicant posture/A receded mirror curdled in our noxious reflection/There has been no water here for many lifetimes/A trail of vermillion blooms in the dust weave toward the skyline/A bloody skin and a line of tracks in the unblinking salt/This wretched dismal hole of man forever warring/Each screaming, lonesome birth a fistful of windblown sand/A brazen bull/Victim and torturer/Mouth full of blood/Lungs full of ash/Whirling—writhing—crushing—joining/A squirming mass of dogs/Their jaws locked around each other’s throat/A hydra with ten billion faces/Ripping at its own belly, clutching its adversary till its last breath is crushed out of its entrails/The sins of the father visited tenfold upon the son/Let them speak of you: “Rejoice, for he has wrought this world’s cremation.”

"Hell has no limits, nor is circumscribed; for where we are is Hell, and where Hell is, there we must be."
Track Name: The Disquieting Muses
Haze lifting, the shifting AM static/Awaken to taillights melting in the fog/Vision snaps to a shadowed and expressionless figure/Flickering and looming black beyond the glass/Hands suddenly aware/On the wheel, rigid and swerving to the shoulder/Shake, smoking and helpless in the roadside dark/A rusty sob, or a laugh like bricks on pavement/Same wretched glimpse/Spiral into nightmare/Fettered to a corpse/A tether of atrocity/With traitor’s feet slouching on toward Bethlehem/Stealing coastward in unconscious hours/Gripped by magnetic impulse in reluctant flesh/Scaled, stygian muscle churning and thrashing on a hook/Bilious glow shimmering/Over the trees, neither dawn nor sunset/Foaming surf in clammy fingers/Clutching at uncertain earth/The dream will repeat/Fettered to a corpse/The afterbirth of a plagued and quaking cosmos/Slither out in its convulsions, trickling into ether/The sermon inscribed in our marrow, it is not god/An oddly-shaped silhouette and the shivering of a severed hand/Nailed to a tree.

“Et quid amabo nisi quod ænigma est?”
Track Name: Burial Mounds
Creeks of filth in muted canyons/Starving coyotes and unsmiling heat/Scrabbling over vicious crevasse/A melting roadway of shimmering black tar/Pinnacle and terminus/Devolution and ataraxy/Beyond the fence, the mouth of the cave/Its stony gullet a prefiguration of hell/Forever waiting, ceaseless and unburied/Airless hexagrams repeating, unfolding/Years tallied by nails in a cross of iron/As this sanctuary turned sarcophagus/A place of time curled like paper in a furnace/A labyrinth, a warning, a monument mortared with ash/Children’s remains curled beneath the images/Of a sickly cloud blooming bright in the desert/A proud banner faded to pale surrender/Eagle’s talons, Noah’s branch and fate’s arrows of holy war.

“We march in spite of Hell, we do—Atrophy, Entropy, and Proteus vulgaris, telling bawdy jokes about a farm girl name of Eve and a traveling salesman called Lucifer. We bury your dead and their reputations. We bury you. We are the centuries.”

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