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Consumed by the haunting sounds of the American West, Fields of the Nephilim, clad in leather and dust, create an extension of gothic country and blues that wallows in death and nostalgia. They are not pasty white Englishmen lost in self-indulgent self-abuse, but rough characters from a song by the Birthday Party. They create frightening music for the hours after midnight when the world is still and the mind explores its darkest corners. Words are growled fiercely, like the passion of a lonely werewolf echoing through an empty valley. Plumes of guitar chords are so thick they might make you choke. They didn't last a decade, but their sounds resound like they're lost in eternity.
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