Bells

There have been few albums in the past year or so, where I've actually noted the exact track and specific time when a song has encouraged me to throw both of my hands off the fucking steering wheel up into the air and tilt my head back with my eyes closed. TRAFFIC BE DAMNED. Those albums where it makes no fucking difference where you left off the last time, just as it makes no fucking difference where you started this time through. Its thick and gelatinous deliciousness knocks you flat and instantly you're floating on your back staring at a sky full of stars at any fucking time of day.

Any particular song at any particular point can take the mundane and tedious and throw a fist all up in them guts. All of a sudden you've gone from a listless bumper to bumper traffic to a tense chase scene with the Camry three rows over, one car back. The standoff is one with oodles of sideways glances, frustrated honks courtesy of full on punches to the horn, five minute lane changes, and many many looks over ye shoulder. Of course the only reason shit got real was because you chose the soundtrack.

Bells have been my soundtrack for close to a week, and the need to change the album hasn't happened yet, and I don't see it happening anytime soon. Ethereal, majestic, triumphant, defiant, glorious, intricate, fucking fat booty-ed, blazingly fucking intense, every adjective I start to type seems half assed, Our Forest, Our Empire from Bells is fucking captivatingly fucking hell yes.

Before I forget, for the record, in reference to the first sentence of this review, that moment was 2:09 into the song Wanderer. I felt the only natural progression of the insanely fucking tangled and elaborate noodling of this particular track was either cannon fire, human sacrifice or group fucking vocals. Thankfully, my post rock intuition hinted at the thing I needed Bells to deliver, but with such beautifully anthemic vigor I couldn't have imagined it sounding so fucking epic.

Granted "epic" is a word tossed around quite a bit nowadays, but rather than inserting a "for lack of a better word" type excuse, I'll stand by it because no other word instills such a specific description of what Bells evoke within my gargantuan testicles.

Bells have gathered a collective sound that pulls from If These Trees Could Talk, Glorie, Maserati, And So I Watch You From Afar, and during a few brief moments I heard 30 Seconds to Mars and My Chemical Romance in the same bathroom playing swords bro, and surely crossing the streams bro. From each of these different sounds, they've built a full fucking wall of impact, utilizing instrumentation, timbre and patience, which creates some absolutely fucking gorgeous moments of subtle tension and boldfaced beauty.

Our Forest, Our Empire sounds like a kick you in the balls sophomore album from a band established in the capture of such inspirational instrumental music, but from all of my digging around, I'm seeing that this is a fucking debut album? How is this shit fucking even possible? It's fucking perfect. Fucking Bells.

Bells must be assholes. Fuck you Bells. Perfect fucking album.

GO BUY THIS.