Bewytched

By Philip Rylands-Richey

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The Wytches are gloomy psycheadelia, grungy animal screams, crashing drums and bleak, echoing riffs; all mixed up in a bubbling cauldron with root of hemlock and eye of newt tossed in for good measure.

Singer Kristian Bell howls away in strangled croaks over the rotten, lurching riff of Beehive Queen. He whines dismally over the pounding guitar of Digsaw, a song that sounds like something Nirvana would have produced if they’d just tumbled out of a forty-eight hour heroin binge. Burn Out The Bruise is Arctic Monkeys all over, swaying closer to their Humbug stuff than anything else.

The band describe themselves as “surf doom”, which may well be a new genre in itself. I find it hard to describe their sound without comparing it to something else, but that’s not to say they’re in any way derivative; they’re fresher than a torrent of vomit wretched from the gullet of some poor fella who’s overdone it on a night out. In a good way.

The Wytches are unsettling, squalid and utterly exhilarating; their music burrows under you skin and lays eggs in a way that’s hopelessly addictive. Consider me under their evil spell, I’m hungry for more.

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