Sleeping Through The War by All Them Witches is a well-crafted rock record. The band wrote all the songs before spending six days in a Nashville Studio with Sturgill Simpson/Rival Sons producer Dave Cobb. The album, a result of overstimulated minds from relentless touring, has an energy that demands the stereo be turned up to full whack.
LP £17.49 NW5147
Gatefold LP on New West.
- Shipping cost: £3.15 ?
CD £14.99 NW6390
Deluxe Edition 2CD on New West. Includes 7-track disc of demos.
- Shipping cost: £1.00 ?
CD £9.99 NW6371
Digiwallet CD on New West.
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Double LP £28.49 NW5172
Deluxe Edition gatefold 2LP on New West. Includes 7-track disc of demos.
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If you caught me at the right moment this record might make me cry. There’s something about a sludgy psych rock band deciding to have feelings that just gets me instantly, and I never reckoned All Them Witches -- a surfy and silly rock-it-out garage band -- to push slow, thoughtful melodies like the ones on “Bulls” into place. Though they lead into the usual heavy-lifting chords, synthy sparkle and full-steam-ahead psychedelia, there are moments on this song so sparse and dressed down that I start to believe in All Them Witches as some sort of band with verses and choruses and things to say in them.
Weird. Let me shake that feeling. “Bulls” properly reminds of the Men and their ability, back in the day, to flick a switch between introspective, lilting rock music and unstoppable psych rock. The album continues down that line, drawing in a pastoral hush on the countrified intro of “Don’t Bring Me Coffee” before going in on a silly, Melvins-chunked hard rawk with plenty of wah pedal condiments. It’s as if these little offerings are tasters, just opening up the song to a pinch of melody before obliterating it -- on “Coffee” they head into a gorgeous little bridge that once again gets torn to shreds with distortion.
It’s like two bands fighting eachother, at times, but it certainly makes a welcome change from doing things ad nauseum. By the time you reach the midpoint of this record you feel like a tune could fork in its proverbial road at any point, that you’re about five seconds from an eruption or dissolve. I’m surprised when the slowly fizzled, doomin’ and shoegazin’ movements of “3-5-7” actually descend into a lovely psychedelic riff. “Cowboy Kirk” is a shrieking love lament that works the band’s noisier, more rambling elements into its newfangled country pining -- it’s a sign that maybe they can live in this sound and really master it down the line.
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