[Cover art by Caroline Harrison]
It’s always a nice little treat when a lyric feels capable of summarizing an album. For Weeping Sore’s sophomore album, the line “The sludge in my veins, the color of a blighted rose” from the opening track, “Arctic Summer,” does precisely that. Sure, sludge is a core tenet of the sound, but you’re some sort of stupid if you think two of the minds behind Pyrrhon are even capable of creating music where a single genre tag is sufficient. No, that line so perfectly encapsulates the struggle between beauty and murk, somberness and brightness, creative layering and straight battery that so define The Convalescence Agonies. Weeping Sores have once again managed to create something that is greater than the sum of its parts and feels wholly unique despite some of its influences being clear as day.
“Flee, prisoner, flee
From those cursed moments’ internment
Shed your yoke; quit your burden
Run free, run free”
Every line comes across like it’s doing precisely that – attempting to escape the aural assault around them and break free of the shackles of repetition. The early stretch of the song has a doomy crush, but isn’t afraid to subtly weave in Annie Blythe’s cello, giving it the space to practically riff. Later on, when she takes more of the spotlight, her work provides the song with the sense of a haunted theater amidst domineering riffs like something a basement-dwelling atmospheric black metal dork would come up with after binging Neurosis nonstop for a month straight. Before the song ends, it has a pulsing discordant stretch like something from a classic Blut Aus Nord album, but also doesn’t shy away from a shredding transition that turns into clean notes looking for a fight. A lot can happen in nine minutes.
Every song on The Convalescence Agonies has its own identity. “Empty Vessel Hymn” opens with post-rock riffs and weaves proggy keys into staccato rhythms that make for the most hostile ’70s song you’ve ever heard. It also manages to so thoroughly blend banjo into its mix that you could easily miss that the instrument is even there. “Arctic Summer” has a trudging doom with a glimmer of uplifting notes akin to something from Sky Burial and a stretch that feels like some sort of demented interlude a noise rock band would create. “Pleading For The Scythe” fires off a battering but simpler breakdown and then erupts with a lava lead that sounds like a stolen hidden track from Morbid Angel’s Heretic.
The title track closes the album with a near 15-minute gauntlet of abuse. It’s a slowly unfurling crush that relies heavily on stretches of repetition that still manage to add nuanced changes as each passage cycles through. The start of it is like being slowly pulped under tank treads, and, eventually, well-timed notes of keys will give it a sense of the somber. When the cellos first appear, they take on a folksier tone not unlike something you’d hear on a Panopticon album. The halfway point of the song takes another emotional post-rock break that you could perfectly picture being the moment where the lights go out, the singer is rocking against the mic with his head down, and the spotlight hits the cellist as she takes over the song with the crowd completely silent aside from that one drunk fool that keeps yelling “SLAAAYYYEEEEERRRR!!!” That passage is put to rest with a Stephen Schwegler drum fill, which transitions into a diabolical Ahab riff with appropriately matching gutturals before the song closes with what could be a Castlevania character soundtrack if it had been written by the people who do the music for The Last Of Us. The runtime of this ending may test some listeners, but to quit early is to miss out on the album’s greatest catharsis.
The overall production suits the sense of struggle as well. The bottom end of the mix is not particularly strong, giving everything a somewhat hollow and raw tone. The dry snap of the snare, the weeping of the strings, or the intermittent notes of keys all fight for purchase while sounding organic. Even Moore, who is absolutely a beast of a vocalist, sounds like his screaming and growling come from a place of pain rather than power.
Don’t go to Weeping Sores because you like sludge or death doom and are looking to be ground into dust. Go to this New York duo when you’re ready for introspection among agony; or seeking unique elements fighting against tried and true formulas; or when you need cold commisseration alone at the end of a shit week. Your best listening experience will be one personal to you, so regardless of what that turns out to be, just listen to this album at some point this year.
