From the smoke-choked catacombs of California’s underworld crawls a beast named "Bow To No One," a monolithic sermon of wrath, haze, and primal groove. Sea of Snakes have forged a manifesto of rusted apocalypse riffs and doom-soaked hallucinations—an invocation that bends time as amps flicker and walls quake, dissolving reality into a swirling mist of distortion and dust.
From the first grinding note, a soundscape unfolds like a ritual—a blood-red sunset over a wasteland of decay. The riffs ooze and slither from the speakers, crushingly heavy, a molten homage to the spirits of Sabbath and St. Vitus. Yet, buried within this towering fuzz, there lurks a feverish unrest, a grunge-laden ache that echoes the cursed promises of a shadowed Seattle.
The band has evolved—from the raw, explosive freedom of "The Serpent and the Lamb" to a darker incarnation. "Bow To No One" is the dying curse of a forsaken god, a baptism in dirt and ruin. The riffs are deeper, the atmosphere thicker, roots of doom burrowing into the earth’s core. This is a record for the damned, a heavy-lidded descent into oblivion—where each note is a drug, each song a spell, and the end looms heavy, beautiful, inevitable.
-Helge Neumann
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