I continue to be puzzled as to who the two figures are on the cover of The Body All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood. People, but faceless, heads covered with cloth bags, the rest of their bodies donning the same covering. Japanese recluse samurai, but, no, the figures are holding not swords but modern machine guns while standing on the edge of a cliff protruding above endless body of water.

Just as I am perplexed about the cover, I continue to be mystified by the music put forth by this Providence duo. Definitely of sludgy drone variety, All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood (I just love typing this) also brings in a goodly amount of noise and vocal experimentation into the mix. Not all of this fits in my head nicely, but the album does not irritate, instead prodding the listener along. The more noise driven experimental tracks Song Of Sarin, The Brave and Ruiner are simmering along quietly, not blowing the lid off the top of this concoction completely. In addition to a number of interesting unusual instruments The Body employs a female choir, which in and of itself could have been over the top as well. The first 7 min of the opener A Body go from soothing to puzzling where this a capello choir will test the limits of your patience, until the heavy drone finally emerges, panic and fear filled, yet attempting to harmonize with the choir throughout. This approach, repeated on Even the Saints Knew Their Hour of Failure and Loss, is a novel find, something The Body are introducing to the genre. Periodically, the choir produces a strong leading voice, tortured Jarboe meeting Rosetta and Oren Ambarchi. In A Body and Even the Saints Knew Their Hour of Failure and Loss, The Body manages to capture a palpable sense of hysteria, when just a moment prior calmness and cool was ruling the roost. Empty Hearth collides blacksmith’s skins and bellows with anvil hitting percussion and tribal chants, fuzzy guitars swirling underneath creating atmosphere just as mischievous as it is malicious.

My favorite tracks are A Curse where trippy rhythms first propel incessant tremolo drilling melody until it crashes into low frequency booming rumbling bound to resonate somewhere deep in your gut. The other is the icy march of the closer Lathspell I Name You, the same female choir announcing tragically, in a mourning fashion, the final death sentencing verdict which can’t be appealed.

For the fans of atmospheric sludge as much as frequency manipulation lovers, from Jesu to Sunno and Neurosis, if you have heard At A Loss releases before, you might know what to expect.