Nothing & Full Of Hell - When No Birds Sang (2023) Hi-Res

Philly's Nothing specializes in big, beautiful shoegaze that tends to fill every corner and crevice. Full of Hell, from Ocean City, Maryland, unleashes furious grindcore that knows when to take a breath and let anticipation hold listeners in thrall. Both say they are genre allergic. The two bands have collaborated on a six-song album that is "beyond limiting ourselves to a genre," according to Full of Hell vocalist Dylan Walker. "There aren't any rules, but there's clearly an identity … We're meeting in the middle where it's lush and beautiful, but also sad and ugly if you look closely at it." Or, in Nothing frontman Nicky Palermo's words: "... we're both simply intent on making soul crushers." That mission is accomplished right out of the gate with "Rose Tinted World," eight minutes of dragon fire so fierce you can hear Walker nearly choking at the end of a line. It gives way to a cacophony of newscasters from across the country, delivering chirpy morning-show chatter to a soundtrack of glacially paced sonic doom, a tower of Babel that frenzies itself into piercing, nattering nonsense. If you can recover from that, it's weirdly, wonderfully uphill from there. "Like Stars in the Firmament" is shoegaze in spirit—languorous, dreamy—but devoid of fuzz and XXL layers; it's not so much a cocoon as a glistening Lynchian bubble, one step away from slowcore Pink Floyd. "Wild Blue" lives up to its name: completely untamed, boundless. At times, it sounds like the song is breathing, the unnerving strings traveling peaks and valleys of inhalation and exhalation. Rhythmic cymbals crash majestically, but like beach waves on the other side of a hill. "When No Birds Sang" fades in pretty and gentle, then crests at the two-and-a-half-minute mark in disorienting loops that wrap round and round the song even as it keeps moving. It's amazing how something so heavy can have such levity. "Forever Well" packs a bottom end like stones dropped in a deep reflecting pool, while a soft, mysterious—otherworldly—layer of noise floats above. There is a kick-in (and eventual fade out) like a tear in the space-time continuum, letting you peek into another world—one of pure tension with searing vocals echoed by angelic ones and far-off sirens. ("It's an emotional record," Dylan has said. "We're bringing you to this edge of an empty void.") And closer "Spend the Grace" wouldn't be out of place on a Muse album ("Light, none escapes," sings Palermo) until Walker's shredded vocals slam you full-force into a doom monolith.