More than two months ago, intensely morbid, violent, and technical Toronto death metallers Tomb Mold branded the psyches of those who were fortunate, sturdy, and brave enough to attend Migration 2 over the course of their set. On a misty Monday in November, they returned to a nearly full house at Bloomfield’s Howler’s Coyote Café, slamming skulls into gravestones with funereal aplomb.
Percussively impressive was skinsman/larynx Max Klebanoff, who was able to growl and rumble away as if he were George Fisher and Gene Hoglan as one spirit, spewing aural ochre onto the walls as he gurgled for the entrails of foolish interlopers. Fiendish axework from Payson Power electrocuted minds and animated the deceased throughout the all too short set that featured material from the band’s latest EP/demo. Tomb Mold are rising into the upper chambers of the underground, and this brief but impactful stand can only intensify their necrotic campaign.
Pain of Salvation met Mastodon, Neurosis, and EYEHATEGOD in a confessional and dreamt up Pyrithe, an engrossing and arcane new local quartet who opened with an incantatory, ceremonial set that utilized the theremin to bewitching effect, spectral, abyss-clad necromancer/frontwoman Vee Cee conjuring and projecting in what was at once performance art and musical expression, sonic occultism and prog-sludge telekinesis summoning the nightfall to enshroud to properly begin the evening with promises of burnt offerings to come.
Philadelphian ghouls Necroscythe were also on hand to chill and shock the audience with their brazenly vile Nachtmystium vs. Midnight vs. Kvelertak vs. Satyricon pier-six hellbrawl in the gutter, black ‘n’ rollin’ out onto liberty avenue, hoods, cloaks, and masks littering the pavement as Jay Hawkins’ ghost comes down with the Kuru on the corner.
Ritual Mass’ “primitive death metal” came off to me as a cruder Hail of Bullets and bludgeoned the crowd effectively just before Tomb Mold took over the stage.
Dread, loathing, existential terror, and magick all had their say within a three-hour span. We would smell of gunpowder and soil and coffin wood and incense as we drifted off after the last guitars were unplugged.