On their collaborative debut, the Louisiana sludge band and the Kentucky songwriter funnel gothic majesty and charred metal into moments of unlikely wonder.
Thou want to make a new world. Sure, the Louisiana sludge militants sound obliterating—Bryan Funck screeches with anguish, as if a scab were being repeatedly ripped from the surface of the band’s music. But Thou have long hopscotched among labels, collaborators, and split-mates, creating a non-hierarchical network of partners. They do what they want, whether covering Nirvana in quasi-exhaustive fashion or weaving an exhausting web of side-projects. Even their New Orleans hub, Sisters in Christ, feels as much like some communal anarcho-outpost as a record store. In Kentucky, songwriter, painter, and bandleader Emma Ruth Rundle occupies a related role. She works in multiple groups while making her own transfixing chiaroscuro folk-rock, too.
Together, Rundle and Thou shape a grand world of their own. On their seven-track collaborative debut, May Our Chambers Be Full, gothic majesty and charred metal curl into moments of unlikely wonder. At their best, these songs pair the power of a rock-radio anthem with the gnarled eccentricity of their respective DIY roots. Chambers suggests a mutual-aid network: Rundle, an evocative singer with a kind of priestly command, supplies Thou with a central melodic ballast. Thou, one of the most dependably mighty bands to emerge from the South this century, add intensity and muscle. Funck’s serrated screams cut across Rundle’s resplendent tone like a hacksaw grinding against a diamond.
These bits are enthralling. Rundle and Funck volley verses back and forth, for instance, during “Out of Existence.” She initially gives in to the band’s relentless rush, allowing herself to be swept inside, while he climbs atop it, sneering from above like a gargoyle. But the guitars, interwoven like a cat’s cradle, swell beneath Rundle during the climax. The effect is transcendent, lifting you from your own gloom for 30 seconds, too. On “Magickal Cost,” Rundle rejoins Funck after the black metal tirade at song’s center, the superhero and arch-villain suddenly joining teams and making your hairs stand on end.
But Chambers as a whole feels much longer than its 36-minute runtime, even to the point of tedium. Wayward psychedelic blues solos and self-indulgent sections interrupt the momentum. “Into Being” spends two minutes searching for its finale through lysergic guitars or arcing harmonies. Aimless passages like these often make the songs feel like a mélange of moments that lose strength as parts pile on. After “Out of Existence” hits its pinnacle with Rundle, Funck takes another unnecessary verse. You’ve forgotten her blissful sting by song’s end.
This fatigue and vertigo stem from the glut of tools at their disposal—and, it seems, their lack of restraint with them. Everyone feels a little like Chekhov’s proverbial gun: If they’re here, they’d better get used. By album’s end, Rundle and Funck build a seesaw of sorts, too often vying for space within the same line or song. They almost crowd KC Stafford out of the otherwise spectacular “Monolith,” a neo-grunge blast that suggests new avenues for Thou. There are four guitars on every song here, reinforcing the sense that everyone must have something significant to say or play.
However exhilarating its discrete peaks, May Our Chambers Be Full is one of those common collaborations that’s more notable for what it says about those who made it than for the new material itself. You witness Rundle’s ability to command a formidable band. You sense Thou’s willingness to expose their melodic heart. Most important, though, you hear two acts committed to considering other ways of existing, or to outstripping our expectations not as an act of public evasion but as one of private exploration. Maybe that’s the essence of building a new world—the most inspiring aspect of May Our Chambers Be Full, even at its almighty heights.
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