It’s no fun living through the month of the dead without lifting the floor from beneath our feet every once in a while.
The nights have now closed in, bleeding the day of light not long after sun up – admittedly what little light there pours through, is most likely grey and dour anyway.
On these days, precipitation is a matter of fact, as the weight of winter leans heavy upon our shoulders. Smiles have faded, forehead lines increase and depression begins to reign heavy.
And with that, here are The Holy Sparks – a somewhat energetic new wave, almost gothic offering from Dublin, whose bass punches and throbs, while heightened guitars exchange taunts with vocals, shrouded by haunt(ed) low-end reverb.
Holding the centre, drums cackle and snap, lurching rather than driving, like a limp-addled elderly man.
And thus November. There ain’t no colour now, it’s all monochrome baby.