If you look everywhere you’ll never find it
But you look under there you’re gonna find it…
The story of Mask Appeal begins like electricity coursing through a ruined Victorian manor, lamps flickering awake after decades of silence. No careful plotting, no cautious rehearsal…only the sudden surge of sound as Mike Shelbourn’s jungle-born drums collided with Dan Graziano’s slippery bass, while Dante White Aliano’s guitar tore through the gloom like a restless apparition. Out of this spontaneous combustion came songs fully formed, like ghosts demanding recognition. Within weeks, the trio summoned their self-titled debut EP Mask Appeal, adorned in Gitane Demone’s hand-painted vision, as if consecrating the band on the crooked altar of Los Angeles’ underground lineage.
This brand new EP arrives from three Los Angeles music veterans whose résumés stretch deep into the underground. Over the years, its members have cut their teeth in acts such as Detroit Cobras, Oozelles, The Starlite Desperation, Gestapo Khazi, Neighborhood Brats, Frontier Club, and more. Together, they channel those battle-tested histories into something immediate, raw, and feral — proof that these guys know exactly what they’re doing.
Slice and Slice crashes in like a fever dream gone feral. Grinding guitars gnash while vocals claw at the ceiling, summoning serpents, bats, and broken heroes. The track carries the unhinged spirit of The Birthday Party: something snarling, something hungry, yet it bends toward camp as much as menace. In its grotesque carnival atmosphere, you can imagine the song bleeding from speakers at a Halloween bacchanal, forcing the crowd into delirium.
From here, Ten Hurrahs turns the page to a different kind of cinematic pulp. It is a crime tale delivered with the gravitas of old-school gothic-rock and deathrock, drenched in the smolder of loyalty and betrayal. The bass pumps with brute insistence, guitars slash with dramatic flourish, and vocals lean into the doomed bravado of old soldiers called to one last job. Somewhere between Death Cult’s grandeur and Nick Cave’s doomed swagger, the song becomes a celluloid reel projected against the brick wall of a dive bar.
Pure Trash wallows in glorious imperfection. A bassline thumps with hypnotic insistence while the vocals slither between humor and confession, deriding human weakness while slyly celebrating it. The hook catches sharp as broken glass, leaving a trace of blood but also a sly smile. Beneath the sludge, there’s an undeniable sweetness, like a love letter written on the back of a torn eviction notice.
Ancestors moves inward, shaking the bones of time. Its tribal drums roll like distant thunder, echoing voices pulling the listener into a trance. The song is both chant and exorcism, collapsing centuries into a single moment. White Aliano’s primal screams tear through the fog like lightning strikes, calling down the presence of those who rattled before us, whispering lullabies that sting as much as they soothe.
Closing with the deeply intense An Era Ends, the band folds apocalypse into renewal. Guitars nod toward Bauhaus’ art-rock stylings while the rhythm insists on movement. The tide, the moon, the planet itself all cycle forward, relentless and forgiving. Love persists even as worlds fall apart. The song leaves the listener at the shoreline, waves pulling in, waves pulling out, a reminder that even in collapse there is dance.
Mask Appeal, in their first breath, sounds like they’ve already lived a dozen lives. Play this one loud.
Listen to Mask Appeal below and order the EP here.
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