Hubble, bubble, toil and reverb: The Wytches brew up a storm on latest album ‘Talking Machine’
The British four-piece unveil 11 new tracks on their fifth record, bringing stoner rock to the indie scene once more.
Photo: Steve Gullick
A ‘talking machine’ is the nickname Thomas Edison gave to gramophones, and Talking Machine is the fuzzy new album from The Wytches, their fifth to date. It harks back to the group’s earlier work and acts as a portkey of sorts to an era of simpler, murky, swampy rock ‘n roll.
The group’s fifth effort opens exactly as one would hope; Talking Machine is shaggy and psychedelic. Half-mixed, ghoulish vocals from Kristian Bell permeate through the miasmic production, like an unkempt Christ from the tomb, before we plunge headfirst into sludgy, thick-as-mud riffs. It’s Osees meets stoner rock outfits Witch and Uncle Acid & the Deadbeats.
Black Ice still proves the obvious lead single from the swampy affair, effortlessly groovy and whiplash-inducing, with Tarantino-esque, American frontier licks. Coffin Nails, Perform and Factory showcase the band at their dirge-iest, blurring the lines between indie, stoner rock and — at points — doom metal. There’s a splash of the blues here and there, owing to the album’s southern, gunslinging vibe. Nothing to See, meanwhile, is a standout offering akin to Smashing Pumpkins’ B-side, with When the Obsession Began slamming and piledriving the listener like a sledgehammer in the hands of a madman.
Romance End, a remarkably stripped-back, vocal-centric piece, acts as a pyrrhic resolution of sorts to the album’s battering climax. The silence that follows offers respite from this heart-bruising selection of tracks, but I challenge anyone not to stick the whole damn thing on again. Talking Machine isn’t some thought-out, profound masterstroke. It’s raw, unfiltered rock from one of Britain’s best acts. Let them brew.
Talking Machine is out now via Alcopop! Records.