From deep in the heart of Texas, armed with the home-grown mantra "Turn On, Tune In, Drone Out," The Black Angels ring real and rugged like a crimson full moon-lit night. Formed in May of 2004, the bands sanctified holy racket was breech-born out of life-long friendships drawn up in blood and sealed with a kiss. Their self proclaimed "Native American Drone N Roll" genre has progressed from communal living ...

From deep in the heart of Texas, armed with the home-grown mantra "Turn On, Tune In, Drone Out," The Black Angels ring real and rugged like a crimson full moon-lit night. Formed in May of 2004, the bands sanctified holy racket was breech-born out of life-long friendships drawn up in blood and sealed with a kiss. Their self proclaimed "Native American Drone N Roll" genre has progressed from communal living and the members eclectic upbringings. Bassist Ryan was born on a cult compound, guitarist Bland is the real deal son of a Texas preacher man, organ player Raines grew up in a mortuary, and drummer Bailey and vocalist Maas believe a little girl in a red linen dress haunts the groups home.

Taking their name from the classic Velvet Underground tune "The Black Angels Death Song," these Angels are far more than classic revisionists with extensive record collections. This is heavy-duty psychedelic rock with an incessant primitive beat that echoes the spirit of the 13th Floor Elevators and early Stones.

Calling the ghetto outskirts of Austin, TX their HQ, these hungry-to-create touring nomads crave taking their love for music out on the road. Their densely-layered songs feature Blands acid-infused finger-painting guitar and the melodic incantations of lead singer Mass within guitar/bass labyrinths from Ryan and new member Kyle Hunt. Raines plays her keyboard as a drone machine, swaying blissfully in skintight boots; the music is martial-drummed into apocalyptic bliss by garage-punk goddess Stephanie Bailey. Multi-media member Richard Whymark does kaleidoscopic projections and stark videos for the band.

With the success of the bands self-titled debut EP, the full-length "Passover" is a sometimes ferocious, sometimes meditative ten song story that fuses their trembling live sound with confessional but artfully written subject matter. The grimey garage rock twang of "Bloodhounds On My Trail" and the lysergic punk of "Better Off Alone" show how varied the sounds on the record are throughout. Songs like "Empire" and "Black Grease" are filled with images of self-destruction, while the album ends on the sprawling "Call To Arms," an anti-materialist protest song with the devastating line, "The trigger to the finger, the finger to the trigger." The album finishes in glistening ruins, devastated of its own intensity, having completely rejected the facile conspiracies of society.