This Heat

September, 1979.

Piano

This Heat have become - to those in the know - synonymous with the quirkier, more adventurous side of the sonic psyche. The forward thinkers; the rule benders, and breakers. Offsetting reality through sound, This Heat embark on a voyage which skews the senses, facelifts the conduit and snaps up all it has to offer. Their self-titled debut turns 45 sometime in September. 

Sounds unforeseen and not seen since. Pulled out the rubble of an air-raid shelter. Haunted mines. Spaces which one dares not go. Things which lurk in the dark. The unknown. The unthinkable. That which grips the soul, in all the worst imaginable ways. Suffocates it's being. Stands on it's neck and doesn’t even notice. It's just another day, another hour, another minute, another second, another another. Peculiarities unmatched. Spine-tingling. I'm sure if you played this around your pet they wouldn't appreciate it. They would despise your existence, cuss you out. Or worse, give you the silent treatment. The eyes. The glare.

Industrially skewed atmospheres. Upset psyches. Fridge-freezers and frosted breath. Pottering about in the devils den. Knocking on the gates of hell itself. Perturbed for a reply. One never comes, but he's definitely in there, somewhere. He's probably busy with what he deems to be important - sewing seeds and buying souls. Like a beast that's been asleep for thousands of years, This Heat glitches into an eventual awakening. An unearthing of that which should have remained asleep. Excavating a malignant force. Roots run deep and run strong; parallel to Hell. 

'Not waving, but drowning. Just a nervous reaction, please don't rescue me.'