The Myrrors

What Tuscon’s Myrrors started on their last album, Entranced Earth, they seek to extend and embolden on Hasta La Victoria. The album dives deeper into the abyss of desert-rubbed drone, bone dry and aching for life. That thirst only serves to bring on hallucinations of flute, panicked visions of heat-stroked saxophone and the spectral wail of bouzouki, harmonium and viola. The album is the desert horizon incarnate, flickering in heatwaves of brown and lit up with the insistent throb of an orange sun that refuses to dip.

The band plays the album like a series of rites, odes to the forgotten gods of an Earth long since scorched by the ignorance of the many and occupied by the breath of the few. This feels like the national anthem of perseverance in the face of overwhelming defeat, a victory in name only. Victory, because not being gone is not being forgotten, at least not yet. For their part the band has embraced the austerity of want, having almost entirely abandoned electric playing on the album. They approach the apocalypse ready – an Earth in death throes, rebounding and healing, but for the moment unforgiving.

They say that this generation has lost its spirituality, but maybe that’s only in the traditional sense. Maybe where old temples crumble new ones spring out of the dirt and out of the mind. In a land without water, carry your sanctuary with you, a fane scraped out of bone and sinew. If that’s so, then The Myrrors are truly the sages of a new choir and the minstrels of a coming age of dust. They’re ready, and maybe when you are too, Hasta La Victoria will open its arms and let you in.




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