Hills – Frid
These Gothenburg psych-rockers trudge, sleepy-eyed, out of the mist with their third album, before locking down and wailing in a manner both grimly portentous and sonorously cathartic. The blissed-out Anukthal Is Here is a highlight – beginning with the solemn air of a funeral procession, it suddenly bursts into undulating guitar explorations and flute passages dripping with folk-flavoured mysticism. Marvellous.
Eastern tones and hypnotic drones abound – all par for the course in Hills’ chosen genre – but when they bust out ten-minute jam Och Solen Sänkte Sig Röd, everything comes together in spectacular fashion. Guitars weave in and out of a pulsating bass groove; stabbing, fluttering and flailing; while solemn vocal intonations punctuate a growing sense of wide-eyed wonder with curiously absorbing detachment. Ultimately you’ll get as much out of Frid as you’re willing to put in – may as well throw your whole consciousness into its moody, murky magnificence.