Jun 11, 20239 min read

Albums For Your Next Blood Sacrifice Ritual

Updated: Oct 12, 2023

A shockingly prolific genre.

Have you ever been indoctrinated into a cult? Do you spend your weekends drawing on the floor of your apartment with chalk? Do you enjoy the taste of blood?

All important questions to ask yourself before exposing your ears to the genre of freak-folk: a fascinating rabbit hole into the exotic and the macabre. Though an eclectic style that is hard to pinpoint, freak-folk is commonly described as acoustic instrumentation derivative of traditional folk with the quirk of unusual percussive instruments and outlandish vocal performances. In many instances, freak-folk artists are lumped into the 'New Weird America' movement that rose to mainstream success with artists such as Joanna Newsom and Vetiver, both of whom have had the freak-folk label attributed to them.

Unfortunately, it is torturous to begin to search for these albums, as terms such as 'free-folk' and 'acid-folk' are interchangeable with freak-folk across the internet. Fortunately, I have done the hard work for you, and have filtered the genre into three albums.

Given the little number of rules surrounding what is considered freak-folk, I have taken some liberties in my definition. When listening to the flagship freak-folk albums, I could only imagine one thing: 'a demonic exorcism with an ancient cult'. So I used that model as my compass when sifting through the endless cabalistic jazz odysseys and brooding drone pieces that came my way: it seems the internet is just as confused as to what constitutes freak-folk as I am. I hope to paint the clearest picture yet of what the genre of freak-folk is, starting from the very beginning.

Defining The Genre

The founding father of freak-folk, and the leading standard I used when exploring: Exuma's self-titled album, Exuma: The Obeah Man.

There is no hallucinogen that can come close to the spiritual connection achieved when listening to Exuma: The Obeah Man. God, Satan, Heaven, Hell: these are just words; there is a profound religious association with this album, but it feels universal in its approach. The term 'Obeah' stems from Caribbean roots, described as a "mystical way of thinking". It is not affiliated with a specific religious doctrine, but represents a creolization of various religious beliefs into a 'human' tradition. Exuma: The Obeah Man isn't exclusive in its representation of faith, instead possessing the intoxicating feeling of inclusivity and community. This is achieved through its sonically raw production, which is effective in transporting the listener into the music as a participant, not an observer.

The world-building is what sells the album's otherwise bizarre instrumentation and song structure. The scene: a midnight bonfire deep in the woods, fit with raucous music and sensuous dancing. Visions of skeletal priests, rabid animals, human sacrifices, and swirling flames environ the tree at the center of the dance, which swings to the tribal percussion with a drunken cadence.

Rhythm is at the heart of Exuma: The Obeah Man, where the bongos tend to drown out the guitars with their primal, earsplitting pulse. The song structure is loose and heavily improvised, giving the album a performative character that is constantly evolving, reminiscent of vintage folk bands of the 1970s such as Comus. Some tracks drag on for 7+ minutes on end, only bound together in tone and by their enchanting choruses, most of which are call and response between the Obeah Man and his followers.

The title track - also the opener - begins with the howling of a wolf, followed by the sounds of footsteps crunching against the forest floor. This motif of nature is central to Exuma: The Obeah Man, as the oil-pastel album cover of a man turning into a tree foretells. The belief that spirits are rooted in the living objects that surround us all instead of floating in the sky far away provides a tangible and authentic element to the ritual.

The vocals of lead-singer Macfarlane Mackey, who goes by his pseudonym Exuma, are coarse and sermon-like in contrast to the smooth and gospel-like choir that backs him. He takes on the role of the 'Obeah Man', where he speaks of demons and resurrection in a lewd tone: there are certainly themes of sex throughout the album. "I see fire in the dead man's eyes", Exuma bellows on the chorus of Mama Loi Papa Loi, bringing Frankenstein themes of zombies to the forefront of his preaching. The song Sceance In The Sixth Fret features rambling spoken word segments of a conversation with dead spirits, culminating in a blood-curling shriek. Moments like these where the music takes a backseat are the most visceral, as the storytelling and emotional impact feels immediate.

Music like this had never been heard before, and this is where its association with freak-folk appears. While the label of freak-folk was given to Exuma: The Obeah Man decades after the album was released, it still provides a consistent reference when explaining the genre. This is wonderful for the artist, as even if Exuma: The Obeah Man didn't receive much acclaim in 1970 due to its outsider nature, it is now regarded as a milestone in freak-folk, displaying an ablutionary ritual of spiritual cleansing without sacrificing the filth of death and desperation.

A New Revival

There is a considerable gap in time between Exuma: The Obeah Man and Natalie Rose Lebrecht's Warraw, which was released in 2003, and there are few similarities between the two: so why do I include Warraw as second in my freak-folk pilgrimage? For one because it sets the standard for the future of freak-folk, especially the neoclassical darkwave influences that begin to permeate its sound; it continues the theme of moving away from traditional folk instrumentation, but instead in an orchestral and electronic direction.

Natalie Rose Lebrecht is one of the earliest pioneers of the New Weird America movement, but gets little recognition compared to her lighthearted peers; Warraw is not a cheerful record: it's as doleful as folk gets. Compared to Exuma: The Obeah Man, which is riotous and charming, Warraw is full of lonely and sentimental lullabies. It is just as magical and supernatural, but instead is an introspective experience where the journey feels personal instead of communal.

The album cover is one of my favorites, as her longing upwards gaze and colorless palette is a perfect representation of the music. The only thing I can imagine when I hear Lebrecht sing is her staring up at the sky in awe and yearning, and those are my exact feelings when listening to her voice: it's beautiful.

The stripped-back instrumentals and utilization of empty space allow her chanting to emerge above the mix with spellbinding harmonies. There are many moments where the instrumentals fade out entirely, and it's just Lebrecht's voice echoing over each other in wistful conversation. It's rare to stumble across an album where the singer pours her entire soul into the music, such as Vespertine or Fetch The Bolt Cutters, but I believe that Warraw deserves to be credited with the same reverence.

While the instrumentation is largely acoustic and lo-fi, as Exuma: The Obeah Man is, Warraw startled me by including various free jazz and electronic elements. In these sections, Lebrecht is no longer singing in a sorrowful trance but frantically wails as if she is roleplaying a character of deranged grandeur: psychotic episodes filled with laughter and voice cracks. Lebrecht is aware of her own paranoia but chooses to ridicule herself, juxtaposing the somber ambience with jocular and blithe lyrics.

Lebrecht's lyrics cover a vast array of topics, from colonialism to nature to mathematics. But for an album that seems straightforward on first listen, Warraw tends to become more baffling on repeat: the more I analyze, the less it makes sense. Lebrecht has created her own world, complete with alternate histories and belief systems. Escapism is better off when the stories are purely fiction, which is why as a rational evaluator, it is hard for me to comprehend a world that is simultaneously so familiar but so alien. Peering into Lebrecht's universe requires first unlearning societal customs that have been ingrained in me since childhood: something I am not prepared to do.

However, between the occasional common lyrical trends and hypnotically consistent tone, I have no choice but to believe that Warraw is an act of genius that I am too incompetent to fully understand. At least it keeps me coming back.

I Left All My Money (Under His Bed) is the final track on Warraw, and is also the lengthiest at over fifteen minutes. This fills over a quarter of the album and is genuinely shocking. I'm not going to feign understanding of the meaning of the track, but all I can say is that it has some unusual usage of the autoharp and is also the best on the album. You will have to listen to it for yourself.

Warraw's place in history is more glaring in retrospect after seeing the birth and maturing of a freak-folk sub-genre that I believe Warraw trailblazed. Emotionally broken women singing over haunting folk arrangements has become an almost common occurrence nowadays, though they still rarely get any attention.

(A criminally underrated album in a similar vein as Warraw would be Spires That In The Sunset Rise - Self-Titled: check it out)

The Final Evolution

Judging by the cover alone, you might have already noticed some similarities between Warraw and Lingua Ignota's Sinner Get Ready: the resemblances don't stop there. Sinner Get Ready is the spiritual successor to Warraw, and is also the most critically and commercially successful freak-folk album there is. Sinner Get Ready is exactly why it's important to recognize albums such as Warraw, as they set the precedent for resourceful artists such as Lingua Ignota to refine and reinvent freak-folk as an unnerving but palatable experience. For most genre tourists, Sinner Get Ready might be as deep as they go, but that's fine: Sinner Get Ready is both Lingua Ignota's and freak-folk's greatest achievement.

Lingua Ignota has garnered a notorious reputation in the genre of neoclassical darkwave after her breakout 2017 album All Bitches Die, which probably has the most kinship with Warraw in its imbalanced structure as well as minimalistic instrumentation. In 2019, she released her harrowing and savage industrial exploit Caligula, which provided a generous serving of power-noise. 2021's Sinner Get Ready is a distillation of Caligula's anger and All Bitches Die's atmosphere, offering instrumentation deeply rooted in Appalachian folk while allowing for a broader emotional scope.

Sinner Get Ready is a resentful album, and the fury is so concentrated it can be nauseating to listen to. Abuse: both by religion and by domestic violence, drives the revenge Lingua Ignota exacts upon her victims. Throughout the album, samples of televised evangelist sermons are broadcasted, just before she sings, "I am covered in the blood of Jesus"; there is little subtlety in her message.

While Sinner Get Ready lacks the instrumental brutality of Caligula, her vocal performance and storytelling are arguably more effective. On the second track, I Who Bend The Tall Grasses, her dying faith in God is manifested in the strength of her voice. "Where does your light not shine", she cries in desperation over droning organ chords, begging God to strike her abuser down. When he doesn't reply, her voice begins to fade, eventually being consumed by the scraping instrumentals as her silent bitterness rises. At the end of the track, the organ is the only instrument remaining, portraying the perpetuity but inaccessibility of God's presence.

The appearance of various piano ballads exhibits the softer elements of Lingua Ignota's persona. The main gripe I had with Caligula was that it was unrelenting in its cruelty: the one-dimensional dynamics anesthetizes the pain. On Sinner Get Ready, softer moments serve to give the intense moments the impact they deserve. The track Pennsylvania Furnace fuses local Pennsylvania lore with a morbid ultimatum: "everything burns". Directly referencing her alleged rapist Alexis Marshall of Daughters, Lingua Ignota describes in excruciating detail the hell she endured, promising to bring him down with her. Even in the face of her own suicide and murder, the piano remains hopeful: a promise of clemency.

Sinner Get Ready is not for the faint of heart, and Lingua Ignota does not hold back in her diatribe. However, it is important: not only for freak-folk, but for those who believe they have nothing. Sinner Get Ready has the happy ending: something that has been forgotten by those who see it as stale.

I hope I have made obvious the transformation that freak-folk has adopted over the past decades, from the festival of death of Exuma: The Obeah Man, the puzzling fantasy of Warraw, and the merciful revelation of Sinner Get Ready. Each their own, but each building from the previous. Yet, this is still only one timeline, and there are many others with their own stories. These are not the 'essential' freak-folk albums, but they have each created their own strain of the freak-folk virus that has infected dozens of artists with its allure. With the mainstream revival that comes with Lingua Ignota, I expect the genre will continue to evolve beyond the limited sphere of influence it holds today. In the meantime, these will have to do.