Family Garden Dreams Beyond Control

"It was in the crumbling, labyrinthine depths of Philadelphia-a city steeped in the whispers of forgotten centuries and the weight of unspoken horrors-that I first heard the name Family Garden. This blasphemous triad, composed of three figures who seemed less like men and more like vessels for some unfathomable cosmic will, had emerged as if spat forth from the gullet of a ravenous void. Chubbrock, Ryan Flannery, and Evan Madden, though cloaked in the guise of human flesh, bore within them the taint of something far older and more sinister. Their veins pulsed not with blood, but with the eldritch ichor of heaven’s forbidden magic, a dark gift that bound them to their unholy purpose. Their music, a grotesque fusion of black metal’s glacial malevolence, crust punk’s feral rage, and the disorienting, acid-fueled chaos of a mind unraveling, was no mere performance. It was a ritual, a ceaseless call to the cultivation of an earthly garden whose roots delved deep into the abyss, sprouting tendrils of cosmic dread that threatened to ensnare any that dared to listen.

I learned of their past affiliations with ill-reputed harbingers of sonic annihilation YDI, Eat The Turnbuckle, Crackhouse, Woods of Ypres, and Woe yet it was clear that Family Garden represented something far more debauched and terrifying. Chubbrock’s guitar shrieked like the death throes of a dying star, his vocals a ululating invocation of entities best left forgotten. Ryan's basslines throbbed with the rhythm of a world submerged, his voice a guttural blasphemy that intertwined with the cacophony like a serpent coiling around its prey. Evan’s drums were the heartbeat of the void itself, a relentless, chaotic pulse that seemed to echo the madness of the cosmos blasting deeper into my psyche with each turbulent kick. Together, they tended their garden, a grotesque parody of Eden where the fruits of their labor were not life, but the sweet, rotting nectar of existential despair. To witness Family Garden was to feel the roots of their creation burrow deep into your soul, twisting and spreading until escape was impossible. I know it must have been a dream, for it to be a reality this bleak, this dominating and vile could not exist on Gods earth. And yet, even as I write these words, I cannot shake the feeling that their garden is still growing, its tendrils reaching ever further into the unsuspecting world..." - Fragment of a scrawled note found on South St.