They’ve burned down the temple just to see what would crawl out of the ashes.
Crobot have always been the house band for the apocalypse — all sweat-stained riffs, swampy swagger, and enough grease under their fingernails to make the saints choke — but this time, the inferno’s aimed inward.
Frontman Brandon Yeagley sounds like he’s howling through a séance, summoning every demon he’s ever danced with and daring them to stay for the encore. Beside him, Christopher Bishop peels off guitar lines that swing somewhere between scripture and sin, his tone dirtier than a bar mat in a Texas roadhouse. The low end rumbles under the command of Willie Jansen, whose bass hits like a sermon in a steel mill, while his brother Nico Jansen drives the kit like a preacher possessed — a rhythm section born to baptize you in groove.
The new record was tracked between the hallowed boards of Willie Nelson’s Pedernales Studio and the Machine Shop in Dripping Springs, then mixed and mastered by Alberto de Icaza, who captured every ounce of holy delirium. But it wasn’t just a recording — it was a ritual. There were smoke cleansings, moon rites, gemstones humming on console tops, meditations between takes, and lyrics treated like spells. Every session felt like a sweat-lodged dream in which the band tried to drown their egos and come back clean.
Lyrically and philosophically, it’s a fever dream stitched from Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity, and Jung, with pages torn from Siddhartha, Reality Transurfing, Black Elk Speaks, and Castaneda’s Don Juan scattered on the studio floor. The result is a raw-nerve meditation on ego death, rebirth, and the dirt-under-your-nails work of becoming a whole human again — a trip through shadow and light, anchored in the red pulse of the root chakra but aiming for something far higher.
If the last few years found Crobot flirting with heavier metal machinery, this era drags the beast back to the groove pit — to the swamp funk and snarling riffs that made their early believers fall in line. It’s the sound of four weirdos rediscovering the primordial ooze beneath their boots and realizing that enlightenment still needs distortion.
Crobot have always preached the gospel of Dirty. Groove. Rock. Now they’re living it — leaner, meaner, and wired straight into the source.