Somewhere between an abandoned Dollar General and a Baptist church that hosts Wednesday BBQ nights, the death-doom metal band Mildew Cathedral tried—and failed—to summon existential dread.
Based in Macon, Georgia, where autumn still feels like late June and people greet you with “Bless your heart” instead of “All is ashes,” they were suffocating under an unbearable curse: pleasant weather and casual friendliness.
It was October 16th.
The sky: aggressively blue.
The temperature: 82°F with a charming breeze.
The neighborhood: three pumpkins and a scarecrow that said “FALL Y’ALL.”
Lead vocalist Shawn “Eternal Sorrowbringer” Hargrove sat on a porch swing, black eyeliner melting in the sun like a cursed candle. He took one sip of sweet tea and whispered, “This is why no one respects us.”
They had a contract with a Canadian doom label called Frostbitten Chapel Records, located somewhere near a Tim Hortons surrounded by wolves. The label owner, a man named Brent, once emailed them:
“Doom must sound like you haven’t seen the sun since Obama’s first term.”
Deadline: end of autumn.
Current vibe: picnic weather and mild optimism. Unacceptable.
The Revelation
Guitarist Dale, staring at a perfectly golden sunset over a field of stubbornly cheerful sunflowers, snapped:
“We cannot create despair while people are grilling ribs next door.”
Indeed, the neighbors were blasting Luke Bryan and shouting things like, “Woo! October heat wave, baby!” over a Bluetooth speaker. Bassist Ricky, wearing a Cradle of Filth shirt while someone offered him lemonade, whispered, “This is spiritual violence.”
Thus Began the Canadian Migration Plan
Keyboardist Ezekiel, who only joined the band because he thought they’d be European, stood up and declared:
“We must go to Canada, where the sky is grey and sadness is a birthright.”
And so, despite hating Canada, maple leaves, healthcare, and the idea of people apologizing before fighting you, they made their decision.
“If the sun is still shining by Friday, we flee north.”
They rented the only van not covered in “TRUMP 2024” stickers and wrote a message to the label:
“We’re relocating to suffer properly. Expect riffs.”
Upon crossing the border, the Canadian guard asked their purpose of visit.
Ezekiel, voice shaking with dignity: “Seasonal depression.”
The guard just nodded. “Right this way, fellas.”
They stepped into the cold grey slush of Toronto in October.
Shawn looked around, finally feeling an authentic chill in his soul.
“Write this down. Track one: My Soul Froze in a Tim Hortons Parking Lot.”
