La Morte Del Sole doesn't play nice. It snarls. It seduces. It throws you into a swirling pit of Mellotron dreams and punkish sneers. The arrangements feel raw, like they were recorded live in a candlelit crypt. Dorian Deminstrel's vocals shapeshift from demonic growls to tender laments, while the band laces every track with retro-futuristic weirdness—think Van der Graaf Generator meets a spaghetti western scored by Goblin. Fungus Family—those Genoese conjurers of sonic chaos—have brewed up a record that's equal parts doom, psychedelia, and garage rock grit. It's not for the feint of heart. Highlights of the album include La Morte Del Sole which opens like a funeral march for the cosmos—slow, heavy, and drenched in gothic grandeur; Il Vento Divino which is a fever dream with guest solos that sound like the wind whispering secrets through a broken cathedral window; and Gabbia Di Miele which is short, sweet, and sinister—like a coiled viper hiding in the corner. Sung in Italian, the lyrics are nihilistic poetry—existential dread wrapped in velvet. You don't need to speak the language to feel the weight. It's the kind of album that makes you want to light a black candle and contemplate the void. Two keyboardists tag-team your psyche: Agostino Macor on organ and Mellotron, Fabio Cuomo on synth and piano. Their interplay is cosmic, jazzy, and occasionally deranged. It's like Rick Wakeman got lost in a maze and liked it. The rhythm section of Caio on drums and ZerotheHero on bass is tight and hypnotic. Basslines often double the root but occasionally break into counterpoint, especially in Gabbia Di Miele, where the groove subtly shifts under the synth haze. Guitar work from Fuzz Caorsi and Deminstrel is minimalist but effective—often favoring sustained chords and tremolo picking over flashy solos. When solos do appear, they're more like incantations than showcases. The mix is raw but intentional. Guitars are soaked in fuzz and reverb, often panned wide to create a cavernous stereo field. Drums punch through like ritualistic thunder—dry, upfront, and unrelenting. The lo-fi aesthetic isn't a flaw; it's a statement. It evokes the grainy texture of 70s horror soundtracks, grounding the album in analog dread. Time signatures flirt with complexity—mostly 4/4, but with syncopated accents and occasional metric modulations that keep you off balance. La Morte Del Sole is a masterclass in mood-driven composition. It's not here to please—it's here to possess. If you want hooks, look elsewhere. If you want to be swallowed whole by a sonic eclipse, welcome to the family. **** David Carswell Where to buy? |
