Conan’s doom is singular. Carved of granite. Yes, of course there’ve been changes since guitarist/vocalist Jon Davis founded the group in 2006, but the intention at the time toward superlative heavy – tonal extremity wrought with impressionist lyrics stripping ideas to the core where sometimes the whole line is just one word; they’ve always called it “Caveman Battle Doom” – remains at the root of everything they’ve done since. And across five studio records in the decade from 2012-2022, Conan have set the standard by which much of “heavy” anything is judged. And in comparison, most is found wanting. But for every time you’ve heard about Conan’s music being like galloping steeds or frost-covered sharp-peaked mountains, etc., imagery of largesse and violence, the truth is Conan are an exercise in frequency. It’s the low resonance that shakes your chest, the depth of the bass – now handled by David Ryley (ex-Fudge Tunnel) – the push of air from Johnny King’s kick drum, or the way the dark-fuzz distortion of Davis’ guitar is offset by shouting vocals cutting through that sometimes punishing onslaught, rarely to offer comfort so much as add viciousness to the crash, plod and pillage. In 2024, Conan sign to Heavy Psych Sounds as a recognized name and one of the foremost acts of their generation, wildly influential in their home country of the UK and well beyond; headliners in practice and theory alike. Their fifth LP, 2022’s ‘Evidence of Immortality,’ brought a dark ambience to coincide with its outright attack. With experiments in darkwave and synth adding breadth to the stated root purpose of aural force, it’s never been harder to guess where the next few years might take their sound, but whatever’s coming, Conan will make it kill. The better part of two decades later, their reliability remains unshakable. Which you want when your band is so heavy that the floor and your ribcage both start to vibrate.  – JJ Koczan / June 2024

For the better part of the last 15 years, the duo of Max Dameron (guit/vox) and Sam Ford (drums/vox) have been too weird and too wild for this lame-ass planet. After enjoying vagabond stints living in Portland, Los Angeles, and Brooklyn, they now call Detroit home. Here they rebuild, out of the scraps and wreckage of the 21st century, something which casts aside any rules or adherence to banal tropes. Specializing in the unexpected, Max and Sam have wrought an individual sound that's as much post-Melvins sludge punk as it is futurist prog metal. Their forthcoming self-titled debut, recorded in 2022 at High-Bias in Detroit, puts on display the fruits of their metamorphosis. From the soaring triumphal fuzz of "Uncanny Valley" or the sweep and thrust of "House of Butterflies” their craft is precise, they're just making up their own shapes to sculpt. Times change and artists mature: now under the name PSYCHIC TRASH, Ford and Dameron come to Riding Easy Records as veterans turning a fresh page, reinvigorated at the prospect of forging a new path and the beneficiaries of about a decade and a half's slog through the underground. Psychic Trash's self-titled debut is unmistakably uncompromising, a little theatrical, intermittently manic, and deceptively broad in style for just how much punk rests beneath.

A sonic glacier of doom spewn into the abyss from the depths of Chicago. Crushing riffs coupled with seething melodies drive this earthquake-inducing two-piece.