Matchbook Sermons by AshChoir

Look, we called it *Matchbook Sermons* for a reason. This ain't just another record, it's what happens when midnight regret finally burns down to a single ember, just before the dawn breaks. We dragged every cough from Sister Lucille’s detuned Hammond and every rattled breath from Reverend Marlboro’s lungs into this thing, then Rez spun it all into a dream you can't quite shake off.

We wanted to pull the sermons out of the dive bar and right into that fuzzy space between sleeping and waking, that collective unconscious where all the dirty laundry gets aired. It started with those cigarette papers, folks writing down their worst fears, their misdeeds, right there on the bar. Reverend Marlboro would set ‘em alight, read the smoke-blurred words aloud, and then that raw truth would just spill out, backed by Sister Lucille hammering those keys till they cried. We figured, why not try to bottle that moment, that feeling when a whisper turns into a roof-shaking confession?

Musically, it's a blues-rap howl echoing against gospel crescendos, all smeared with that "ash hiss" we get from old motel answering machine tape. That grit, the nicotine pops, the radio spill – it’s a texture you start craving. We got Howlin’ Wolf arguing with Kendrick Lamar in a rusting boxcar, Mahalia Jackson acetates warped by the radiator, slide-guitar licks screaming through police-scanner speakers. Rez even rigged the 808 kicks to the Reverend’s breath, so the whole tempo staggers and lurches, making you feel every gasp. It ain’t clean, and it ain't supposed to be. This is hypnagogic soul, industrial trap, ambient delta blues – whatever they wanna call it. It just *is*.

You hear it from the first breath on "Ashmouth," the tension building, that tape-rewind fill pulling you back just before the next word hits. Through the sleepless nights and megaphone prayers, you feel the weight, the shame. Then "Oxygen Stagger" hits, and you're in the Reverend's lungs, that beat limping and surging with every single breath. It’s raw. Then "Cinder Gospel" lights up, those cigarette papers flaring, and you get that blast of truth, that children’s choir sample reversed and snapped forward. It's a journey from numb sorrow, through clenched anxiety, right into something like fevered clarity.

The whole thing builds to "Lucid Rail," where the crowd starts chanting "Dream me clean, burn me bright" – you can almost smell the smoke, feel the heat. We wanted to make that moment, that release, real enough to touch. And then on "Choir Ignition," Sister Lucille just slams that Hammond into a blistered major key, and the warehouse choir *explodes*. It’s that moment of revelation, that sky-splitting overtone where you realize you can actually steer this damn dream without letting go of all the sorrow that got you here. It’s a gut punch, but it’s a release too.

It winds down with "Leslie Sigh" and "Matches Ember," catching the aftershock, finding acceptance even with the scars. It all circles back on "Ashmouth Flame," Reverend Marlboro whispering the first regret again, but this time, it’s just a single ember, and there's a child choir echoing the chant. It ain't perfect, it's not supposed to be. It’s real. We hope it sticks with you, makes you think, makes you feel something honest. It's for anyone who's ever sat in a dive bar, feeling too much, and needing a reason to keep breathing. Maybe it’s a raw hymnal for an exhausted era. Maybe it's just a conversation starter. Listen to it. You'll see.

Gritty blues-rap sermons from a smoky dive. Old gospel burns. Raw confessions and our ash hiss fuel the grit. No polish, just truth.