Opening Albert DeMuth’s album is the first challenge. Wrapped like a gift in golden tissue, it rips and tears no matter how carefully you remove its tri-fold present. It’s a simple metaphor for the music of DeMuth, a solitary brood of overpowered guitar and deep vocal riffs. The golden sun is really a bright light that will be ripped to shreds by the darkness that will always come. As for DeMuth’s take on such a muse, the results are as surprisingly great as any gift — even if it’s lavishly packed coal. But coal is just an unprocessed diamond, so I will dig up the earth and put it back in the ground for a few more thousand years of bankability. In the meantime, I’ll keep DeMuth above the crust, even if he’s a bit crusty himself. We all need that prodding to face the day headfirst, to crash into it without padding and to fall down on its sword daily. We finally have the real soundtrack to those miniature crashes we endure every waking moment when agony overtakes ecstasy. A golden lining to a gray cloud.
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