Clergy - The Howling (cassette)
From the cobweb-choked vaults of nocturnal despair: Clergy, no longer dead, crawls out of the coffin once more to spill spindly, vampyric black metal. Clawing its way from the forgotten crypts of the Northeast United States. A bleaker abyss is hard to find. “The Howling” is a shadow-laden descent into black mold, where starlight bleeds and the ancient hunger is awakened again.
Razor-sharp melodic guitar leads spiral like ghostly apparitions, weaving a sorrowful, sinister web to ensnare the soon to be undead listener. Each riff is a fang, each melody a deathly waltz of despair. Beneath this cursed dance, the drums crash and thunder like ancient gates shuddering against a midnight storm, powerful and unrelenting.
The vocals, a blood-chilling rasp, cut like icy winds, spewed from the lips of a wraith. Ghostly, venomous intonations invoke an aura of unholy possession—an eldritch call to the open tomb.
These songs: a shadow. Their words: a call from the grave. Surrender to the curse.
The Howling beckons.
On quicksilver cassette, with quicksilver cassette case, printed on silver-grey parchment.
From the cobweb-choked vaults of nocturnal despair: Clergy, no longer dead, crawls out of the coffin once more to spill spindly, vampyric black metal. Clawing its way from the forgotten crypts of the Northeast United States. A bleaker abyss is hard to find. “The Howling” is a shadow-laden descent into black mold, where starlight bleeds and the ancient hunger is awakened again.
Razor-sharp melodic guitar leads spiral like ghostly apparitions, weaving a sorrowful, sinister web to ensnare the soon to be undead listener. Each riff is a fang, each melody a deathly waltz of despair. Beneath this cursed dance, the drums crash and thunder like ancient gates shuddering against a midnight storm, powerful and unrelenting.
The vocals, a blood-chilling rasp, cut like icy winds, spewed from the lips of a wraith. Ghostly, venomous intonations invoke an aura of unholy possession—an eldritch call to the open tomb.
These songs: a shadow. Their words: a call from the grave. Surrender to the curse.
The Howling beckons.
On quicksilver cassette, with quicksilver cassette case, printed on silver-grey parchment.
From the cobweb-choked vaults of nocturnal despair: Clergy, no longer dead, crawls out of the coffin once more to spill spindly, vampyric black metal. Clawing its way from the forgotten crypts of the Northeast United States. A bleaker abyss is hard to find. “The Howling” is a shadow-laden descent into black mold, where starlight bleeds and the ancient hunger is awakened again.
Razor-sharp melodic guitar leads spiral like ghostly apparitions, weaving a sorrowful, sinister web to ensnare the soon to be undead listener. Each riff is a fang, each melody a deathly waltz of despair. Beneath this cursed dance, the drums crash and thunder like ancient gates shuddering against a midnight storm, powerful and unrelenting.
The vocals, a blood-chilling rasp, cut like icy winds, spewed from the lips of a wraith. Ghostly, venomous intonations invoke an aura of unholy possession—an eldritch call to the open tomb.
These songs: a shadow. Their words: a call from the grave. Surrender to the curse.
The Howling beckons.
On quicksilver cassette, with quicksilver cassette case, printed on silver-grey parchment.