Imagine a version of Julio Cortázar’s The Night Face Up where there is no motorcycle crash and no series of dreams about trying to outrun Aztec warriors determined to capture you for human sacrifice. There is still darkness in this story—the darkness of living in post-Reagan America, existential dread, the futility of living one’s dreams and still waking up every day.Devil Worshipper is the dream that swirls and reflects landscapes in chrome as snakes dance in your spine. Blistering solos that wouldn’t be out of place on a Helios Creed or The Mike Gunn LP draw the night sky as a steady, hypnotic rhythm paints the lines dividing the highway out of here.

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