This depressed Black Metal musician plays ultra-slow Doom. Maybe even Drone Doom, of the kind that, if you go to a gig by a band that plays in that style, you could walk into the venue and see them all apparently motionless—hair as if frozen in the air—and come back in a month to witness the first drum beat being played—and in a year to hear the first change of chord. His Lordship has had his heart broken by some random vampiric maiden, who sucked him dry and then discarded him like an empty husk, left to cut himself and weep beyond consolation. His Lordship is so blackly depressed, in fact, that he sees the world now only in varieties of black—carbon, petroleum, night. Humans are scum, His Lordship has concluded; the sooner the plague, the alien invasion, the doomsday asteroid, or the thermonuclear holocaust comes, the better. Support the war against humanity! But this doesn’t even begin to plumb the depths of His Lordship’s depression. It is deeper than the Challenger Deep, deeper than the Verona Rupes, deeper than the Kola Superdeep Borehole. And his soul? Colder than Pluto’s surface when facing away from the sun at the planet’s aphelion. There’s no humanity left there. Once His Lordship recovers, the psychopathic rage will come back, and the shrieks of pure inhuman hatred will fill the air, along with icy guitars and blastbeats. But that’s in the future. Now it’s all mourning and funereal thoughts—a time for open caskets, mausoleums, ossuaries, hearses, and gloomy crypts. Even His Lordship’s flesh is now rotting and falling off the bone. Soon the worms will appear, and the mice will be running around. New demo coming soon: cassette only, limited to undisclosed single-digit number of copies, signed in blood, razor blade inside, gothic fonts on paper photocopied multiple times to make them less legible, no advertisement anywhere—just whispers into elite ears. Pre-order now!