HEATHEN APOSTLES (WESTERN GOTH SONGS – Live Review) – “Sailing Into Hell”:

Have you laid eyes on the Heathen Apostles before? Neither had I, so I tightened my corset and braced for the spectacle as The Lexington’s stage morphed into a grand theater. The band took their places, ready to unleash their storm.

For a bewildering moment, I wondered if a mistake had been made and that we were all about to see a production of The Crucible…
But then the music starts, and all thoughts of justice governed by fear, prejudice, and suspicion are banished by the powerful chemistry and musical genius that fills the air.

Dimly lit and serious-faced, with an intensity so fierce it sends shivers down the spine, the crew aboard this storm-tossed vessel of sound is a force to be reckoned with. Mather Louth, captain of this weather-beaten Gothic Americana ship, commands the stage with vocals that pierce through the fog like a cutlass through the thickest of sails. Her voice guides us through seas of murderous balladry, the brooding lyrics and intricate instrumentation flowing with the ease of a ship slicing through dark, tempestuous waters. Their genre-bending style is as unpredictable as the high seas, each song a rogue wave crashing with elegance and power.
“Capital T” was led by the alluring violinist Luis Mascaro, whose bow dances with the finesse of a master swordsman. “Shadow of the Crows” follows, with Thomas Lorioux’s heavily percussive bass”

Amidst it all, the violinist—our ship’s smiling rogue—grins through the storm, his playing as sharp as any rapier blade. And smile he should, for his skill is nothing short of staggering. With a call from Louth—“How y’all doing, London?”—the ship sails into “Death’s Head,” and Louth, trading her well-worn guitar for a bodhrán, spins a tale of love turned sour and a stolen heart, the tremolo percussive beat building into a magnificent, macabre crescendo.

Strings fly off the fiddle, fingers a blur of fury and speed. Mather announces that their seventh album, The In Between, has just been unleashed upon the world. The crowd—many dressed in their own interpretations of Gothic Americana, a right old bunch of gothic buccaneers, some with no hair, others with long hair flowing, hats tipped just so, and a few even adorned with a small skull or two—respond with hearty cheers, fully enraptured. In no time, they’re under a spell, completely connected to the rhythm.