There are plenty of promising riffs and catchy little guitar lines throughout, but a lot of the time the songs they belong to don’t end up developing into anything you can really take home.
The Black Angels keep things constantly interesting, and the way the album comes together when listened to as a whole makes it as vital and thrilling as it is.
The Angels are masters at sounding simultaneously cool as a block of ice and hot as hellfire, but the cunning pop melodies are the real key to this album's success.
The Black Angels don’t meander or mince words, and Indigo Meadow is a testament to that ideology.
Indigo Meadow suffers as a whole from both a lack of cohesion and ultimately, quality.
It’s classic, thickened, crunchy rock lightened for earbuds.
For the most part the Angels charitably continue to breath life into a ragged genre with a looseness and playfulness that belies their serious business name.
It’s a not a crime for a revivalist outfit like the Black Angels to occasionally lapse into flower-power corniness; if delivered with a little self-awareness, it adds to the appeal of the anachronistic package. What’s not forgivable on Indigo Meadow is the pretension.
Indigo Meadow, with it's psychedelic leanings and potential for good melodies, could have been a hot item in the indie community this year. Instead, it's a meandering mess that, while it can be enjoyable, spends most of it's time convincing you not to pay attention to it. It's not incredibly enticing, but I'm sure it is a rewarding listen for some. Just not for me.
#74 | / | Rough Trade |