Dark and foreboding, suffused with the mystery of desert landscapes, and the insanity of unhinged melancholy, Scorched Birth emit pulsating, enigmatic tones from the depraved pit of plutonic excess. Inspired by swirling turds in antipodean urinals, the bark of rabid, outback dingoes, the swell of blood engorged genitalia, and secretions of poison pus from anal boils coated in thick crusts of diseased scabs, Scorched Birth rage against the triumph of smug mediocrity by adhering to a strict and cruel regimen of brittle discipline.
The Janus face of Scorched Birth stares at the void, and, when circumstance requires, interrogates the sublime horizon of possible redemption. To wit:
Broken and splintered sticks hammered with manic force, frayed wire brushes thrashed against bloodstained skin, rusted strings stretched and snapped, scratched, scraped and plucked before being fed into the maw of the digital machine, and then regurgitated in a sick swill of vomitus bile. Bass drum pounding like an industrial anvil, cymbals crashing like Tsunami waves against the radioactive shore, nails dragged across fetid frets in the service of a frightful transfer of tones between defeated souls facing the inevitability of failure and the indifference of the mollified crowd, lonely and resentful in their catatonic, big screen stare.
Gentle taps against metal bells, precision strikes quivering like a new born quail, falling like summer rain tapping against a rustic windowpane. Counterposed with floating bursts of free fall melody, stuttering and stammering, speaking in unknown tongues, tentative, and fragile in its exploratory journey to the the centre of the earth, for what it’s worth, Scorched Birth.