Highly recommended.

We couldn't help but think of little-known outfit FRANCE, who we unearthed a few years ago one night before Record Store Store Day. Their mesmerising and repetitive drone, along with the electric hurdy-gurdy totally fried our brain, leaving it burbling in a puddle we're not sure has ever fully reformed.

The second proper LP by this Texan juggernaut is even more biggerer than the first, a head-drowning pair of new 'reels' (every Water Damage tracks generally take up a reel of tape, hence the 'reel ____' song titles) that makes you feel like you’re swimming in a sun-drenched river of sound. Two drummers, two bassists, and tons of vibrating strings are once again a recipe for massive rocking-drone fires.

Two Songs, a kind of the yin/yang of Water Damage: one toned very low, growling and roaring, groaning over a beat, while the other hums high, troubling the treble clef and ringing like a bunch of church bells that don’t want to be in church. They’re more alike than different though, divining momentum from repetition, flying forward by staying in place, climbing a mountain that they’re building as they go.

Enough ink has already been spilled about the previous-band pedigrees of the players in this hurtling collective, and by this point, the past seems way less relevant than the present when it comes to Water Damage’s present-pounding sound. These people know what they’re doing, sure. It’s there in every second of this gigantic, eternal music—in all the strings being bowed, the skins being slammed, the rumbles being rumbled.

Water Damage haven’t just given their tracks reel numbers. They're also called 'Fuck This' and 'Fuck That.' I take that as instructional. Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re fretting about, whatever someone’s trying to use to occupy your attention so you’ll buy something or vote for something or ignore something: Fuck This. Fuck That. Listen to Water Damage."