There’s nothing like experiencing solstice on the “Highway.” Crying eyes alone, driving or walking along the dark-paved stretch of road in the middle of the night. Doesn’t matter the emotion, just letting it all out in the only place possible: the atmosphere. Letting loose along the “Highway” is the only therapy one can maintain while collapsing internally. Yet contentment races against gasoline-fueled eyes, red with high, psyche cracked just enough to pour out in wails and bursts of yelling. Conscious thoughts convincing other right-minded conscious thoughts they’re insane. Believing in a mentality that believes in itself. Retina-searing headlights ghosting images one could reach out and grab. Try to care about everything, but really the effort of caring is the hardest part, not everything else. Hey Mother Death finds their Highway mindset in matching sound experimentation with lyrical content, racing each other rather than taking the same car.
“The Hills” is a much more open area to excavate as time stretches a bit further here, like shifting gears to make that peak. And sure, the cryptic nature of swapping translation is an exotic oddity in road signs — and a pleasurable one to mention — but the expectation of humans reacting a certain way is general yet void. Much like understanding a falling rock sign, one can abide by stopping rather than speeding up, but seeing both reactions simultaneously is what makes the rush admirable. At once torn and mended, “The Hills” can be traversed with a high level of patience upon further thinking, or at least treaded lightly without concern for meaning in a visceral demand of motion. Hey Mother Death does excellent work providing Highway aesthetics and niche entertainment, but it’s either heard one way or another; neither blend well without a visual element.
Don’t get it wrong, though. “Bad Sex” is still sex. In the car. On the hood. Yeah, anywhere in the car would be “Bad Sex.” But again, STILL SEX. The breakdown of this is more like hearing pornography rather than seeing it. Like that feeling after watching a few hours of adult film and then just sitting there thinking about how much time was wasted watching it. This is Highway. That gaze after experiencing [life] in full, feeling as though there is no road or car surrounding this Highway. Only space and time. Sex with another, but wanting to feel this feeling alone. My guess is that the members of Hey Mother Death practice their art form mutually as a duo, but with separate therapeutic goals, which ends up feeling mismatched, yet within a completely hot, sweaty, awkward team-yoga setting.
This road is a “Snake Power” of shape, wrapping up into a coiling of guts and mess. It’s actually the only way a pair of vagabond Highway travelers can agree upon the shape of things. A conversation — or much like a conversation — “Snake Power” ensnares this vessel with drive and navigation — or there is no way out. Conceptually, this conversation works within the confines of what Hey Mother Death is tangoing in Highway. It ends on the duo meeting/agreeing on a fluid and blended sound that can be diced or mashed. And although listeners might not be prepared for a male voice prior to the last track, the lonesome travelers merge and melt in colors only seen in the black of night against the darkest part of our Earth’s sky. Hey Mother Death presents the acceptance of soulmates in Highway by pronouncing their musical abilities at a half-cocked gaze, looking slightly past the other member’s eye line, in opposite directions.
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