Bolstered
by the semi-success of their psyche-doom retro-rollers Witchcraft,
extreme metal label Candlelight delve even further into the
troll-infested world of Stonehenge Rock with this shamelessly spazzy
acid-folk band. Circulus are from England, but not the fish n’
chips and Spice Girls kinda England. No, this seven-headed acid-folk
monster is from the Medieval, boil-you-in-oil, lute playing, pantaloon
wearing kind of England. They sound like a cross between Fish-era
Marillion and the Polyphonic Spree, or maybe one of those loony
early 70’s bands that always had paintings of like, birds with crazy eyes
on the cover of their records. You know the ones. This, their debut album,
is extraordinarily fruity, not to mention flute-y, and will bring to mind
that time you got blotto on grog and puked on a dwarf at the Renaissance
Faire. Whether that’s a happy or sad memory is entirely your business.
With half a cup of coffee in me – never mind somethin’ nasty – I’d
probably rip this CD outta the machine, smash it to bits, and vow to break
the kneecaps of every harp-plinking court jester involved in this madness,
but I’m all outta juice today, so I’m just letting flow all over me, like
warm hippy rain on summer solstice. Goddamn dwarf had it coming, man.
Bolstered
by the semi-success of their psyche-doom retro-rollers Witchcraft,
extreme metal label Candlelight delve even further into the
troll-infested world of Stonehenge Rock with this shamelessly spazzy
acid-folk band. Circulus are from England, but not the fish n’
chips and Spice Girls kinda England. No, this seven-headed acid-folk
monster is from the Medieval, boil-you-in-oil, lute playing, pantaloon
wearing kind of England. They sound like a cross between Fish-era
Marillion and the Polyphonic Spree, or maybe one of those loony
early 70’s bands that always had paintings of like, birds with crazy eyes
on the cover of their records. You know the ones. This, their debut album,
is extraordinarily fruity, not to mention flute-y, and will bring to mind
that time you got blotto on grog and puked on a dwarf at the Renaissance
Faire. Whether that’s a happy or sad memory is entirely your business.
With half a cup of coffee in me – never mind somethin’ nasty – I’d
probably rip this CD outta the machine, smash it to bits, and vow to break
the kneecaps of every harp-plinking court jester involved in this madness,
but I’m all outta juice today, so I’m just letting flow all over me, like
warm hippy rain on summer solstice. Goddamn dwarf had it coming, man.