Crawling out of the dark and ominous cornfields (c'mon, you've seen those movies) of Central Pennsylvania, Black Cowgirl comes covered in mud and dripping with echo on their latest full-length, Weight of Oblivion, a psychedelic trip through the headspace of a band that hails from the middle of nowhere and wants to fly to undiscovered planets on the outskirts of our galaxy.
You see, I'm from the same hometown as Black Cowgirl (right down to the zipcode), and I know from experience that there is literally nothing else to do but get high and turn your guitar up all the way. The cows at the dairy farm down the street don't care. You'd never guess Lancaster, Pennsylvania would be such a perfect biosphere for trippy stoner rock, but if there's one thing we can do there, it's grow things. You know what I'm talkin' about…
Black Cowgirl's been around since 2008, and with this new album, they've set their feet firmly in the history and context of stoner rock, with inspiration flooding in from southern rock and doom traditions, their sound distinctly their own but clearly influenced from the annals of their genre: The Atomic Bitchwax, Clutch, Kyuss, even The Hellacopters.
Actually, the vocals remind me a lot of those bong-hitting Swedish rockers, doubled up and soaring, a traditional spacey melodic accompaniment to the record's fuzzed out guitars. The first track, “Talk of Wolves” is reminiscent of an early Monster Magnet track, and kicks the album off with a nuclear bang. The title track, “Weight of Oblivion” is another killer, grinding in at a slower pace than many of the album's central “strutter” songs (like “Roadmaster” and “Dead House”), taking on a swirling, doubled prog guitar line and packing it in tight with atmosphere and wisps of the dankest smoke.
A vinyl release for the album is coming soon on Bilocation Records, but after that, the hardworking quartet is back to the grindstone. Where should they be? On tour with Royal Thunder, that's where. Weight of Oblivionholds some unbeatable riffage, straight out of the book where the devil wrote in names like Brant Bjork, Tim Sult and Dave Wyndorf. The album (available on iTunes and all over the internet) is full, rich, with wide open spaces for your long hair to headband in sweaty ropes. It is epic, with songs like the closing double “Becoming Nothing” and “Unio Mystica” bleeding into each other, unable to separate themselves in the delicious mess of squealing wah and fuzzed out bliss. This should be a new modern stand-by, and Black Cowgirl should be one of your new favorite unsung bands.