Review Summary: Bring him on.
Conor Murphy fronts one of the most popular active emo-rock bands in Foxing, but
Here Comes The Devil is actually the first time I've had a visceral reaction to his music. I wouldn't describe it as evoking introspective emotions like
sadness so much as stoking genuine anxiety and fear. There's a sense of existential dread that slowly creeps up on you here, and it's inescapable. 'Another Devil', just the second song on the LP,
begins with the following line about life: "How does it feel now it’s gone? You wasted away every second of it / Here comes the devil, and all is lost" and ends with the creepy-as-all-fuck Latin outro of "sanguinem bibimus, Corpus edimus / tolle corpus Satanae / avē, avē Antichriste / Avē Satana!" – which translates to "we drink the blood, we eat the body / raise the body of Satan / Hail, hail Antichrist! / Hail Satan!" It's fair to say that this isn't Murphy's rosiest moment, and although Satan himself probably isn't crawling out of Hell's basement on a ladder that leads right into the man's living room, there's definitely malevolent forces at play here – even if they're figments of Conor's mind. However, as anyone who's suffered from depression can tell you, our inner demons tend to be the realest ones of all.
Despair emanates from every crack, crevice, and corner of this thing lyrically, but it's relatively calm on the surface. 'Farewell' slinks along to a groovy piano line, ''Do You Still Love Me' possesses a beautifully somber melodic glow, and the soulful baritone and lively saxophone of 'I'm Breaking My Own Heart' make it even more of an earworm than Murphy likely intended. Within those same three songs, however, we're given lines like "There’s nothing left to say / What’s left for us but farewell?", "I’m sliding leagues below, into the warm embrace of the unknown", "Will you carry me with you like a hot cross on a sinner’s chest / Am I worthy of your love, long after I’m dead?", and "I’ve got nothing else to do than self-destruct in front of you." The majority of these tracks might be classified as emo-pop, eschewing the sort of heaviness that typically accompanies such bleak thoughts. Even as we cross over into the record's midsection, the music feels purposely subdued against the backdrop of what is clearly a narrator in crisis. 'Heaven Knows I'm In Hell' is a love song in its own grim way, floating by on some acoustic notes and reverb as Murphy croons, "May love lead us to one death / Let it be treacherous, let it be true / And may Death lead me to you." 'Table Rock Antichrist''s pattering drums, noodling guitars, and gorgeous ambient finish all seem eerily understated versus the terrifying urgency of the lyrics: "The Shepherd of the Hills is calling us home / Nobody likes to be made to wait very long / The Table Rock Antichrist calling us home / Nobody likes to be made to wait." The conflicting music/message throughout the majority of
Here Comes The Devil creates a very unsettled dynamic, as if it's too profoundly depressing and/or evil to be casually bopping along to – yet, as the instruments and hooks dictate the flow, you still will.
Across the back portion of this record, Conor absolutely erupts. His trademark shrieks make a return on 'In Poor Taste' – overtaking the soothing acoustic guitars and subtle horns – and it feels like the tangible musical culmination of everything that
Here Comes The Devil previously hinted at lyrically. Murphy once again sings of death, but this time it is less mythical/metaphorical and feels absolutely personal: "You always said you were gonna be bald / Got it from your mom's side, you swore to god / I can’t help feeling cheated by the thought that I’ll never find out if you were right or not"..."Strange that makes me feel better never reaching out, or skipping the wake / In my defense it was on my birthday / Well here I go makin’ it all about me...I can’t let you have anything." Then there's 'Canto of Queens', which is notably abstract by comparison with its splattering of aimless percussion and Murphy's incantation of "bathe his brother’s blade in blood." Eventually, the whole thing resplendently implodes and smoothes out across a minute and a half of chilling ambience. By the record's conclusion, 'Holy Immolation' and 'Here Comes The Devil' ramp up the electric guitars to deliver a one-two punch brimming with
by far Smidley's most imposing riffs. 'Holy Immolation' sees Conor plead with God himself to be the one to end his life – "I’m holding for apocalyptic trumpets, but it’s crickets all the time / Maybe it’s a punchline / I want you to be the death of me, I’ve never been so sure of anything" – and the way the guitars lose focus and everything sort of just unravels into chaos feels like an intentional artistic decision to mirror his mental state. Once the title track rolls in, replete with its sinister strut and riff explosions, Conor has us in the palm of his hand. It's a crescendo – this fucking spine-tingling apex – that sees him shouting and shrieking almost unintelligibly about the devil's arrival while the electric guitars wail on in the background. But it's all done with a wink and a nod after the opening verses clarify "I would free fall with a smile on my face through the gates of hell / If I knew you were waiting", allowing all subsequent lines to feel like a taunt, as if he's egging Satan on. In the absence of any meaning offered by God (see 'Holy Immolation''s unanswered spiritual pleas), it seems that he's willing – eager, even – to inflict unimaginable punishment upon his soul in order to make his own truth, or perhaps just to finally experience love. Maybe they're not even separate concepts. Armed with that peace of mind and ready to go to or through hell to find it, the phrase "here comes the devil" is turned on its head. Bring him on.
