Cerca:necro soft

Crypt of the Wizard is proud to present Necro Soft - Don't Test the Unmaker's Patience on vinyl and digital formats. What if the devil recorded a record? Would it scream for attention as loud as it could, with all knobs turned to 10? Would it be just another relentless wall of noise vying for your shortened attention, only to be forgotten while the next hot thing is being released, but this time, once again, promising a more raw and extreme experience than previously imagined? Seems unlikely. Satan is a subtle seducer. Luring and waiting are his tactics. His is the insidious rhythm that runs down your leg, causing your foot to tap while your lying lips are still saying, "This isn’t really my kind of thing." All sequins and satin, laughter and fun, while whispering in your ear about his plans for the final destruction of the infinite universe so quietly, you forget to stop enjoying yourself. Necro Soft’s debut LP Don't Test the Unmaker's Patience is crafted from this very notion. Rising from Copenhagen’s unrelentingly creative Mayhem scene with connections to bands such as Ryg Din Sidste Bøn and Gabestok, you already know you’re in for something special. With the devil at the helm and influenced as much by contemporary black metal as by the UK big beat scene of the 1990s, bands such as The Prodigy are seldom listed as having an impact on underground metal records, but here we are! A shimmering wash of drum machine rhythms and perpetual pop production designed to ensnare listeners with its irresistible beats while subtly corrupting their souls. Listening to Necro Soft is akin to entering some kind of damned Heavy Metal disco, high as a kite, and fixating on the glittering mirror ball in the ceiling before noticing that the floor is sticky with blood.

Crypt of the Wizard is proud to present Necro Soft - Don't Test the Unmaker's Patience on vinyl and digital formats. What if the devil recorded a record? Would it scream for attention as loud as it could, with all knobs turned to 10? Would it be just another relentless wall of noise vying for your shortened attention, only to be forgotten while the next hot thing is being released, but this time, once again, promising a more raw and extreme experience than previously imagined? Seems unlikely. Satan is a subtle seducer. Luring and waiting are his tactics. His is the insidious rhythm that runs down your leg, causing your foot to tap while your lying lips are still saying, "This isn’t really my kind of thing." All sequins and satin, laughter and fun, while whispering in your ear about his plans for the final destruction of the infinite universe so quietly, you forget to stop enjoying yourself. Necro Soft’s debut LP Don't Test the Unmaker's Patience is crafted from this very notion. Rising from Copenhagen’s unrelentingly creative Mayhem scene with connections to bands such as Ryg Din Sidste Bøn and Gabestok, you already know you’re in for something special. With the devil at the helm and influenced as much by contemporary black metal as by the UK big beat scene of the 1990s, bands such as The Prodigy are seldom listed as having an impact on underground metal records, but here we are! A shimmering wash of drum machine rhythms and perpetual pop production designed to ensnare listeners with its irresistible beats while subtly corrupting their souls. Listening to Necro Soft is akin to entering some kind of damned Heavy Metal disco, high as a kite, and fixating on the glittering mirror ball in the ceiling before noticing that the floor is sticky with blood.

Poem by Alea Coble (February 2026) - Written for Andrew Weathers, Chattonooga Recording Project

Listen to my story and everything will come out true. - Bessie Smith

35° 02' 44.27" N -85° 18' 34.85" W:

Howl. Hammer strikes firing pin. Its echo ricochets over river bend. The woodpecker’s syncopated pop-pop-pop clink and thwap in time with cops practicing prayer at the firing range.

Quick. Sketch a few constellations onto a postcard: empty shotgun shells, these pre-forgotten fossils snaking rusted railroad spikes, like snagged rosary, fallen poplar petals draped over cerulean glass ashtray scattered along glittering fractures, ignored like a treaty. Train tracks reverberate necrophilic boomerang-hunger for mountain air without that coal dust. Eat. Eat. Everything is real estate. Even the air is for sale. Buy it cheap while I.C.E. carves through the valley along the Trail of Tears in unmarked SUVs, traffic stops.

Howl. Callback to estranged entanglements oscillating over holler and highway. Meet on the porch. Haint-blue ceiling. Some ghosts can’t get through anyway. They got tied up on the Walnut Street Bridge by a mob of white spit. Howl. The South should scare you.

But the woodpecker is still nesting, hungry, typing uncannied punctuation marks into black oak: a deed. Home? Takes a side-eyed knowing to call by name. The moon sickles in a sweating glass of iced tea.

Speculation cycle: symmetry as ancient as sour-dank betrayal of the tongue, bitter bones binding blood and lead, alchemical forgetting like I found a hairbrush in the yard while planting wild irises, like someone is charging $10 for an old glass Coke bottle, like semicolons itching restless under new sod from no-one-knows-where. Howl. Sing back. History is soil-in-stereo.

How will this line end? Like riverbank? Like atlatl arching hope smash-through a stained glass window? Words fall out of the sky, and 30 American flags snap at attention on the bridge. Howl. A shift in the wind gallops through the streets tossing her head back, laughing.

Tennessee River, who once kissed Pangea, how she softens at the knuckle-suck of it all, that secret-sweet stowed in the feathers of sandhill cranes lifting up on warm summer breeze: slow-shooting stars bending toward unbothered brevitas.

Howl. The red wolf knows her truest kin is always her shadow’s shadow.