Manufactured Americana as black metal crutch gets my goat. Falls of Rauros, however, rolled out from under an Appalachian rock fully grown with guitars in hand and a mind to record the songs of their people. At least it sounds that way. The ease with which these riffs roll is the key, whatever their demeanor. When the rivers run red with blood and blastbeats, the blackish amalgam is effortless, comfortingly cocophonous, genuinely compelling. The clean guitars may appear civilized to a questioning ear, but they belie the bestial undertow. Harrowing, howling vocals emit a mien of madness and tap that vicious vein. Ultimately, this is a devastating explosion of somber, wistful, raging sentiment. I will lay down my bones among these rocks and roots.
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