On the Horizon: Premonitory Melancholia, Moon Ate the Dark.

There's a premonitory gloom to the doom-laden, leaden neoclassical works of London pairing Moon Ate the Dark. Channeling all the sunless despair the name may intimate, their melancholic, yet simultaneously menacing compositions chime the tune of a repetitive, and with it unremittingly solemn knell. The sound thus evocative of, say, having broken a thumb, had Nils Frahm not authored the nine achingly poignant and sporadically uplifting pieces of Screws to instead curl up on himself, his every waking moment devoured by an all-encompassing anguish. That's sort of where Bell├ęs Jar sits. Or sets. Irregardless, theirs is a revelatory gloaming worth agonising within.

Moon Ate the Dark.