Birds of Maya


As stated, it is kinda nuts in hindsight that at their pinnacle, Birds of Maya trucked out to the venerable Black Dirt Studios in upstate NY, recorded a ripper of an album and then just sat on it for the last seven years. Stroke of bad luck for us all it seems. At the time Purling Hiss was leveling up to smoother sounds, Ben was getting in deeper with Watery Love, and I suppose that Spacin’ was still circlin’ the atmosphere so there were other interests pulling at them. Though, if I’d laid down an album of scorch this heavy at the time, I’d feel compelled to get it out into the universe. However things aligned or didn’t align, we’re all in a better place with the universe now that the maelstrom has come home.

The band picks up right where they left off with Celebration — a haze of amplifier scorch hangs over the record acrid, noxious, and perfect. The riffs smack at the listener like heat baked electric tape, with a stickiness that’s slippery and uncomfortable, but utterly unavoidable. They’re impossible to shake once they’ve latched onto your lobes. The band, much like Endless Boogie, belongs to the basement. While this was recorded at Black Dirt, it feels like they must have brought at least a concrete talisman with them because there’s a suffocating crush to Valdez. The drums hit like a board to the back of the head. The guitars peel a few layers of skin with a battery acid burn and the foul snarl of the vocals invites only pain on its audience. The Birds were always good for bone-crunching exorcism of the ego in the moment and they’ve not lost a moment of that over the years. This an archeological dig gone very right. It’s the blood of 2014 baked into amble and let free to burn 2021. I recommend you hold on tight for the ride.

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