In a land far, far from the confines of the A-A-B-A song format lies a different form of organization: The Mantra. Religious Knives mine this never-ending pit for all it’s worth, digging greedily until there's little room left for human life.
Such is Resin, a thick, smoky song cycle you won't be able to scrape from your mind. Replacing tight snares and tinny high hats with ominous toms, recognizable instruments with tricked-out organ and guitar ruckus, Religious Knives tear tickets at the entryway of a scrappy mess only a mother could love. Luckily for them, indie folk are feeling maternal when it comes to experimental drone-psych.
Why shouldn't they? Albums like Resin are delivering all the goods you can't get at your multinational conglomerate. Ironically, a few of these tunes, with their organs aflame, skirt dangerously close to “Five to One”-era Doors territory (vocals, even), proving that no matter how askew the Knives trudge, they -- and their peers, for that matter -- still aren't really that removed from the folks making money.
But that's neither here nor there, really; no one ever raked in much money from such peripheral explorations. And yet records like this make a mark, however subtle, upon the launches that follow. That's one of the sweetest aspects of peering just a little deeper into the void -- from certain vantage points, a small ripple can turn into a big wave, even if the general population doesn't notice the inch of water drenching their shoe souls.
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