In "Wind Before The Storm" the wind comes in like a hot summer night in Sao Paulo, where the atmosphere becomes dense and all the streetlights appear to be waiting to perform their roles. Samuel Yuri does not declare the storm, but allows you to experience it gradually creeping into your chest and it becomes a heavy burden that clings to your ribs. One guitar thread is whirling like a plume of cigarette smoke, and then the drums roll in, with the slow and measured threat of thunder that is already decided to come and get you.
He has a gravelly, midnight-throat; he is rough, near-antique, like the voice of a pulled-across-sun-baked rocks, nearly barbaric, and hooked up to a rusty amp. It bears the burden of a person who has looked too long at the horizon, a person who has seen all the beautiful and all the frightening in the world. When the riffs eventually burst it seems not like music, but like landslide--a wonderful avalanche you are glad to be buried in.
It is full of grunge and some gothic shades of the dark corners, it is alive with a beat of a powerfully Brazilian rhythm, which does not want to be trapped. It transports me back to those nights on top of rooftops, years ago, where Alice in Chains was streaming out of a window of a neighbor; but this feels even more spacious, and more wild, as though the storm had something to say, and something to narrate.
Every snare crack is as heartbeat that you had not noticed beating. When the final chord has faded into the air of nothingness you have no breath, you are standing on end, and you are tasting the metallic anticipation of the electric on your tongue. It is not just noise of the background, but it is an atmospheric event in the leather and distortion. Something grandiose has been brought to light by Samuel Yuri and frankly speaking I do not ever want to leave it.
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