I don’t know about you guys, but things have been feeling pretty bad lately. Suffocating, disorienting, overwhelming, and malicious–like we’ve been dropped in an alternate timeline or lousy movie. On some level, it feels frivolous to be talking about music at a time like this, but music is something that provides me comfort, and talking about it is something that brings me joy, so I’ll be damned if I’m robbed of that on top of everything else that’s being rolled back and taken away as the already-wealthy strip this country for parts.

During this time, I’ve been making a concerted effort to stay offline, or at least stay away from the websites whose owners are increasingly cozying up to our totalitarian leaders. I’ve been having friends over for dinner, digging into books, finding comfort in a cup of coffee, and trying to embrace the real, tangible, beautiful things around me. I’ve also been listening to Herr God’s fittingly titled Grief and Calamity.

Based out of my hometown, Portland, Oregon, and named after a Sylvia Plath poem, Herr God is a four-piece making hazy, disaffected slowcore that isn’t afraid to burrow into itself. The EP opens with a re-recorded version of the band’s first song, “jesus candle in the liquor store,” which acts as a suitable appetizer for the haunting and dream-like beauty to come.

“dental laboratory” starts with ambient nature sounds, a single guitar, and a distant police siren that all entwine with each other beautifully before the full band enters. Eventually, the group is joined by a violin and everything mounts to a transfixing guitar riff, but only after Chloe Gallardo has wrung out every drop of emotion found in the sparse lyrics. Everything is layered on slowly, allowing the listener time to admire each element as they spark through the lo-fi crackle. Middle point “222” acts as a palate cleanser with a fast-paced electronic beat that paves the way for my favorite song of the bunch, “the killer and the caviar.”

Much like the tracks that precede it, “the killer and the caviar” begins with a simple guitar loop and drum pattern before the lyrics build up to the confession, “I can’t love you anymore,” which is repeated like someone adjusting to a new reality. Halfway through the track, the distortion kicks up to a world-ending caliber as Gallardo coos over the unholy noise. It’s a beautiful, ascendant wall of sound that feels comforting and disquieting in equal measure.