It's the summer of 2008, and the psychedelic revival is in full swing. In one corner, post-Kyuss jamsters like Earthless or Colour Haze stretch the skin of Sabbath over the drug-fueled freakouts of bands like Hawkwind; in another, head-nodders like Acid Mothers Temple and La Otracina paint their flags in the colors of the dronier, hazier krautrock bands and let them fly; not content to let the acoustic world be dominated by the (relatively) straightforward sounds of indie-folk, weirdos like Six Organs of Admittance and Sir Richard Bishop reprise the instrumental madness of the legendary John Fahey and pick their way to the heart of the sun. It's a good time if you are, like myself, a fan of "drug music" in the classic sense, and it's into this crowded arena that Denmark's Svartbag drops its self-titled debut album.

And it's a stunner. I was shocked, at first listen, by the confidence and skill with which this trio-sometimes-quartet handles repetitive drones colored with washes of electronics -- evoking everything from The Velvet Underground to Can to Suicide to Spacemen 3 as they go, awfully important names to be invoking when describing a band's first album. But when I discovered that guitarist A. REX has been active in the Danish punk scene since 1979, that he and Niels Ladefoged having been making noise together since 1996, and saw the cranky-old-man photo peering out from their myspace (since removed), it all began to make sense. This is a debut in name only -- Svartbag is, in actuality, a culmination of a lifetime of dedication to the cause -- it's the closest you'll get in 2008 to a real-deal lost krautrock record, as opposed to the efforts of a few young kids hip to the psychedelic sounds of yore (no offence to bands of that ilk, many of whom are great). It's one of the best arguments I've ever heard for sitting on your talent and really letting it steep before pressing it into wax forever. And if it's been a long, long time in the making, it's a joy to hear something this assured, cohesive, and well-composed (there's not a wasted minute or note on here, folks) with the knowledge that I didn't even know I was waiting for it.

Opener "Black Capricorn" fades in slowly. Keyboards, strange noises, anxious guitars, and distant drums slowly assemble themselves into a dark, pounding drone that positively drips with creepy nighttime ambiance in a way similar to the most seductive early industrial (or, strangely enough, trip hop). The heavy keyboard washes and space-blues guitars of "The Flutist" sound like Suicide jamming with Spacemen 3, while the heavily processed vocals in "Cairo" bring to mind Eno's early ambient work, before they fade into a beautiful, heavy, guitar dirge that sounds like the sun rising over the wrecked wasteland of a post-apocalyptic rave. "Loop #9," which reminds me of Mogwai without actually sounding anything like them, is probably the closest to modern post-rock the band comes, and it's the most shimmering, gorgeous song on the album. Closer "Billy Name" is the high-water mark of a remarkably strong album -- a distant sample taken from the chatter in Andy Warhol's first Factory studio is overtaken by the mechanical stomp of heavily processed drums and the return of the Spacemen 3 guitars, this time in an aggressive, triumphant mode that brings the album to huge, satisfying climax. All that said, the entire album is of one piece, each song setting up the next perfectly, the highs and lows of everything running together into an immersive, narcotic experience that clocks in at nearly 50 minutes (the bulk of the songs hovering around the ten-minute mark) yet seems to fly by. Fortunately, it's an album that holds up to -- hell, practically demands -- repeated listenings.

If you like psychedelic music, space rock, proto-punk, early electronica, krautrock, or shoegaze, this album is a no-brainer. Go get it. Now. About the only problem with it is that, as a debut, it sets the bar incredibly high for any follow up. Into a scene currently brimming over with talent, creativity, and energy, Svartbag has loosed a meteor that's cool on the surface and molten inside, a tightly-coiled machine that effortlessly walks through nearly forty years of avant-garde, druggy minimalism as only people who have lived with these sounds for decades could. Absolutely nobody is doing this sort of thing better right now, and I can only hope they take this show on the road and bring it stateside. Bravo, gentlemen, and thank you for your patience.

-Lucas Kane