The English Camel of Doom are active since the beginning of the new millennium and Terrestrial is their fourth test on long distance. As per the band’s name, the genre is obviously doom, but this is handled with experimental mastery and a cosmic aura that at certain times brings the sound closer to that of Monolithe. The proposal of the British is, however, much more restless, escaping more than once to the orbit of the genre and then return suddenly with deadly slowdowns. Terrestrial, with these premises, can not be an album of easy enjoyment but it is definitely a work of great depth, here the prevailing feeling that arises is the disquiet rather than pain or emotion and, unlike the latter two moods, tends to stabilize without finding any outlet. A sort of implosion that lasts for over an hour without causing fatigue, thanks to a constantly high level of tension and an always excellent work of the leader Kris Clayton (with a past in Imindain and, as live guitarist, in Esoteric), who takes care of all aspects except the rhythmic base. On a vocal level, Clayton opts for a scream growl of sludge matrix, while the other instruments are used for an overall result that is antithetical to the protagonisms of soloist matrix. Even if subject to a subdivision by tracks, Terrestrial should be understood as a continuous flow of sound, in which the melancholy gives way to a dismay now angry, now resigned: Camel Of Doom never let go, a cosmic malaise hovers in every passage, even making it difficult to categorize the proposed sound; having to choose a moment of the album, I would say that Pyroclastic Flow stands out thanks to the terrifying contribution of Simon Whittle’s bass and the measured electronic taste given to the track by Clayton’s keyboards. A great album that leaves me with a sense of estrangement that, only rarely, music provokes in me (for example with the more experimental albums by Blut Aus Nord, even if it could seem a bold combination given the diversity of genres covered): damn dangerous and equally effective.

2016 – Solitude Productions