“I want everyone to feel as terrible as I feel about the murder of innocent civilians and mistreatment of people via imperialist doctrine and also to know how horny I am the rest of the time.”
Brood Faye snarls and seethes, a beast of broken circuits and battered amplifiers, hammering out industrial anthems steeped in sweat, static, and synthetic decay. Born from theatre’s grand illusions but sharpened by LA’s unforgiving sprawl, mastermind Zach Webber took the velvet-curtained artifice of stage and set it ablaze: trading greasepaint for grinding basslines; Broadway’s flourish for EBM’s brute force. What once shimmered in synthpop glow now stomps with mechanical menace, fusing the metallic clang of industrial with the sneering bite of horror punk and the claustrophobic aggression of nü-metal.
NYU’s Tisch trained the voice; LA warped it. Years of audiobook narration shaped Webber’s cadence, but distortion warped it into a better fit for warehouse dance floors and pounding underground dungeons. Even the name ‘Brood Faye’ came from a game of wordplay, drawn from Webber’s lineage and the whispers of Celtic folklore. It’s music built on dread, pressure, and a determination to be heard.
Brood Faye took form in 2021, with Webber hammering circuits and static into a jagged, metallic howl of defiance. The rage runs deep, a seething current of fury against fascism, a mechanized assault on indifference. Each track grinds forward like a rusted cog in a relentless war machine, fueled by disillusionment and resolve.
An original Jupiter 4, a Moog Grandmother, and a Roland Juno-1 form the skeletal frame, their analog hiss and warbling tones bending beneath Webber’s voice: warped, wounded, run through distortion until it bleeds. It’s both a sermon and a siren, a rallying cry spat through broken teeth. The industrial bite of Skinny Puppy snarls in the mix, the testosterone-drenched stomp of Nitzer Ebb rattles beneath, and the lurid croon of Depeche Mode slithers through, mingling with the ghost of the Misfits and Australia’s Cong Josie.
Brood Faye conjures worlds where Francis Bacon’s figures writhe in grotesque agony, where Soviet propaganda looms heavy with paranoia, where Blade Runner’s neon streets hum with digital dread. It’s the sound of control slipping, of power corroding, of an empire rotting from within while the machines keep marching, relentless and remorseless.
“There is some madness that has come from my perception of the state of things on Earth,’ he quips. “I like anything that sounds both sexy and disgusting, and I love romance.”
The Tank serves as a scorched-earth diary; a brutal exorcism of memory and menace. Fourteen tracks claw through industrial ruin, laced with remixes from FUEDAL, Healing, and Ex-Heir. It thrums with the heat of Webber’s home state, simmering in Texas sun and stained by Arlington asphalt. Me and Larry seethes, raw and unfiltered, a vicious sneer at war criminals who wield power like a bludgeon. Lust and fury tangle, blistering over a voicemail from Webber’s great-uncle Larry, a relic of the past folded into the rage of the present. Sweet Assassin plays like a slasher flick drenched in neon sleaze, a true crime nightmare rewritten by Rob Zombie. Death doesn’t stalk in the distance: it slips beneath the skin, takes the mic, and sings back. It’s a reckoning, a reclamation, a howl from the misfit’s corner, where growing up different means growing up dangerous.
“I feel like Texas has been screaming at me to include it for some time because I haven’t before, forsaking it in my past tracks for something medieval,” Webber confesses. “In this case I’ve made Texas its own ancient era, relegating my own life growing up to its own form of mythic history.”
Listen to The Tank below and order the album here.
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