Wayfarer – American Gothic Review

I love a good image or gimmick. But sonically, I need a sense of realism that I can sink my teeth into for that image or gimmick to really resonate, ya know? Years ago, when I caught wind of western black metal purveyors Wayfarer, my first thought probably went something like this: “I bet these dudes do all sorts of badass stuff, like carve apples up with pocketknives and eat the slices straight off the blade or walk into the nearest saloons and pick fights with the craziest characters this side of the Mississippi.” That was in 2016 when their second full-length Old Souls dropped. For a moment suspended in time, I sat there, probably in my boxers and a can of Pringles by my side, with the idea that maybe I, too, could live the cowboy lifestyle—wanted dead or alive, friends.

Anyway, that’s when I knew the gimmick worked for me.

Truth be told, I’ve been captivated by each of the band’s releases, but nothing left me salivating more than 2020’s A Romance with Violence. This shouldn’t be much of a surprise: Wayfarer comprises lads from heavy hitters including Blood Incantation, Stormkeep and Lykotonon. There is a grittiness to A Romance with Violence, almost like choking on windswept dirt. But in hindsight, something was missing. Was it haunting? Yes. But the band’s latest full-length is spectral, a grim reminder of the ghosts that haunt the American Nightmare rather than the American Dream. While less gritty, the aura of the songs remains palpable. In some ways, even more so.

Like a tumbleweed of sound, the band’s new LP American Gothic continues its unforgiving exploration across sun-scorched landscapes of the American West. With this one, they’ve leaned even harder into their signature sound, which stands firmly alone from the sonic journeys into cosmic worlds with Blood Incantation or the lands of magic with Stormkeep. These Wayfarer albums are more akin to the Coen brothers’ masterpiece No Country for Old Men and Don Siegel’s classic Dirty Harry rather than something like the unfortunate Wild Wild West motion picture from the ’90s.

Produced by Arthur Rizk (Eternal Champion, Sumerlands), American Gothic continues the tradition of weaving the raw intensity of black metal with the mournful echoes of gothic country and Americana. The album feels warm, conjuring melancholic beauty but still planting megatons of dark, emotional weight. Read the lyrics for yourself, but thematically, the album is a seemingly huge, rotting, branded question mark on the anecdotal idea of an American Dream. Did it exist then, does it exist now, or has it always been a spoonful of propaganda gingerly shoved down our throats?

The album begins with “The Thousand Tombs of Western Promise,” an effort that merges melodic Western riffs with the ambiance of black metal. Holistically, the opener sets the stage for a trek deep into the ashes of America’s past, guided by the haunting chills sparked by an early 20th-century spoken word sample. A foundation of thundering drums mixed with mid-paced riffing and a thick bass tone adds depth to the song, much like geological formations in a barren canyon. “The Cattle Thief” hoists beautifully picked melodies and technically intricate drum patterns to create vivid scenery, with tribal, almost anthemic sequences that add depth and character to a journey, seemingly on horseback, with each beat mirroring a hoofbeat pounding relentlessly on the arid earth. Strategically placed moments of atmospheric black metal and noise serve as brilliant shifts on this track, too—a testament to the meticulous attention paid to pacing and engagement.

Much like the sepulchral grounds of a ghost town cemetery, “Reaper on the Oilfields” is almost unsettling. Off-in-the-distance, droning vocals and haunting cleans further enhance the mystery that builds throughout the album. It’s also important to mention just how cognizant the band is regarding the experience of listening to a record in full. It’s all well done here. The ride continues with “To Enter My House Justified,” a single that’s both heavy and infectious. The irresistible riff digs into your psyche like the toll of a mournful church bell. The drums, most notably the snare sound, echo the rhythmic pulse of the American frontier and pack a punch before “A High Plains Eulogy” offers a more laid-back and soothing interlude. The album’s perfected pacing—yet again—takes center stage here.

“1934” serves as a seamless transition into the final two tracks. “Black Plumes Over God’s Country” is aggressive, but punctuated by moments of clean vocals. The song is an unpredictable terrain that teeters on the edge of numerous genres, but not to the point where one overshadows the other. Waves of intensity come and go, and the most noteworthy moment arrives with an old country twang vocal performance near the end. The album concludes like a lone drifter riding into the moonlit horizon with “False Constellation.” A brilliant touch of keys merging into a rolling drum pattern and clean singing make way for howling screeches that sit in the darkest corners of the tune. The piano riffs are woven throughout the song and are catchy, almost like the soundtrack to a eulogy. While most of the vocals are clean on this track, it is, without a shadow of a doubt, the perfect way to end the album.

At its core, American Gothic is a work of art that brings the country’s darkest pasts to light, all while providing audibly ghastly and beautiful soundscapes. I don’t say this lightly, but that pacing of the album is perfect, each moment is savored just enough to enhance the next. Some songs are on the lengthier side, but nothing here is done for the simple sake of doing it. In fact, quite the opposite. The album flows cinematically. The minutes and seconds count. You’ll fine plenty of genre-bending and song structures, too. From doomier parts to borderline ballads, from country to black metal, it’s all there. However, not one overshadows the other, which is a monumental feat in and of itself. Production-wise and instrumentally, it’s top-tier. Without question, it’ll be on many year-end lists. And deservedly so.

Yee haw.