The themes on Boneworm's self-titled debut are brutish and desolate. Songs of love have their place in timid ballads and frivolous pop ephemera. But concepts like failure and crushing doubt are burdensome beasts that are best caged and conveyed in music that is unafraid to handle them. This has always been the dire necessity of metal music. Boneworm tells these tales by calling upon rasped howls, punishing bass, and the occasional guitar solo that delicately pulls us aside and promises that nothing will ever be ok again.
For a genre that is frequently looking outward into the psychedelic aether, Boneworm offers their doom with a sense of crushing immediacy. Which is the more terrifying, the intricate words of a sinister hex being cast, or plaintively being told that nothing matters because time is already
To be fair, imagery of bubbling cauldrons and mystic dimensions is overkill when you're already writing your music against the backdrop of Portland, Orygun. A discerning ear will detect the homages and influences, but Boneworm's sound is brewed and bottled in a northwest style. This is the soundtrack to rain-slick blacktop glowing under sodium lamps. This is the thump and rattle of freight trains and rattling windows in the industrial district. This is the distinct sound of Cascadian doom.
Boneworm is Tim Burke. Tim plays guitar and shoulders the burden of knowing exactly how you are going to die.
Boneworm is Dave Becker. Dave plays bass and, like a lich or a Roman emperor, only seems to be growing more powerful with age.
Boneworm is Chaz Rocker. Chaz plays drums and hangs out with your Camaro-driving uncle. Ask about the weekend they drove to Reno.