Named for the enormous but short-lived Southeast Asian Lepidoptera, Chicago’s sludgy post-metal pioneers spread their powerful wings and take flight like the mighty Mothra, doing battle with and slaying the stellar expectations set by their previous three albums.
Coma Noir improves upon the band’s winning kaleidoscopic interchange of influences and sonic touchstones, notably combining the pooling groove grind of Neurosis with the celestial psychedelics of Ufomammut, and the agonizing and lamentful atmosphere of Paradise Lost, a kaiju-sized force of pure contempt fortified and propelled by a driving head-long hardcore pummel. While not as technically proficient as fellow local post-metallers Pelican or as brooding as doom dreadnought Bongripper, The Atlas Moth excel in song craft, with lyrics that address issues both societal and existential using dynamic compositions that effortlessly thread influences with memorable chord progressions that shift tempos and transition melodies without losing momentum or sacrificing the adrenalized mush of each cyclopic rhythm. The white-phosphorus glare of the riff bombardment of “Coma Noir” burns hot with fury, while the trippy post-hardcore space rock of “Last Transmission from the Late Great Planet Earth” threatens to put a dent in the axis of the lonely spinning island they share with us, later the irradiated electro riff-rock of “The Frozen Crown” groans with the crushing weight of a cold blighted anguish which anchors its grudging resolve, and finally concluding with the fatalistic doom metal noir of “Chloroform," a terminal and caustically conclusive knock-out. A rustle in an alley, a bird drops dead from the sky, a pair of glowing eyes in the distance- unsettling emblems of foreboding pour into your head like dirty water circling a sink drain, filling you with fear to the point of bursting- stir and strain, but there is no waking from the depthless sleep that has overtaken you, a fit of nocturnal torment monitored from under the brim of shadowy wide-brimmed custodian's gaze, a constant presence of ambivalent chaos.
Don't fake it, make it (Prosthetic Records)
