Like an elephant in a china shop, the British quintet Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs starts his prodigious fourth studio album, “Land of Sleeper” (Rocket, 23), making his way by swiping and elbowing and with the fierceness and self-determination typical of someone who seeks to sentence a declaration of intent. That of Matthew Baty and company is simple: claim within the independent scene that doom and stoner sound, so buried and forgotten today in favor of other genres that have survived their particular revival. We are very much afraid that the attempt will remain just that, in a shot to the board that finally falls out without scoring. But while the ball is spinning, tempting us with the possibility, we will rescue from the proposal of this aggressive formation more than one element to be potentially enjoyed.
There are no limits to this singular burst of visceral catharsis and no intention of making “Land of Sleeper” an accessible and useable album, because as they demonstrate with those instrumental binges in which bass drums, strings and cymbals crowd chaotically, Baty and his people only seek to create the perfect artifact that helps them get even the last of his personal ghosts. With their angry and almost atavistic tone, the Newcastle formation will test the neck of the most painted, making use of their best and most abrasive guitar riffs, some demonic percussive cadences and a screaming and harsh euphoria used in their lyrics, with the that will generate a whole that will correctly refer us to names with a capital letter attached, such as Kyuss, Electric Wizard or Sleep.
The drawback may lie precisely there. Well, in the 90s, we are very sure that Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs they would have given up ostracism and DIY in favor of being one of the front-line bands of the heavier, darker sound. But despite living in times when releasing an album of these characteristics is a brave act, the British do not sacrifice their desire to do what they really and truly want. That they want to score infinite solos in which their lyrics are practically reduced to howls of pure violence? Well there you go”Atlas Stone”. That they want to put together a sort of satanic coven, with gloomy choirs that give goosebumps? the creepy “The Weatherman” it will leave us with our legs turned around. What do they want to make us travel to the past and delve into the fine line that separates the most intense punk-rock from the most primitive heavy metal? With “Pipe Down!” we will have the feeling of having Ozzy Osbourne himself in our headphones.
The most conventional reason rewards them, and for something “Mr. Medicine”, his most immediate, melodic and catchy cut, is also the most reproduced. But that does not encourage them to put aside what they know how to do best: build a progressive and staggered castle of rage and uproar, with unpredictable structures, where only their intentions prevail to give voice to their most primal desires and their particular triumphs (“We’re finally feeling like we’re alive. In memory of our inner beasts, in memory of our self esteem”, they sing in “Terror’s Pillow”). The pleasure of not breaking their character and remaining faithful, after an intense decade, to that sound that defines them so well, is, for now, their most visible reward.