The Gospel – Sunday Mouring – Tour Only CD – Review

5th May 2025 0 By Jon Deaux

In the places where light avoids lingering, Sunday Mourning by The Gospel found me.

Not placed, not discovered—it arrived. Slipped into the room with the hush of something that’s always been there, just outside the frame of your vision. The disc itself looked handmade, yes—but wrong. Like skin tanned and pressed, edges curling inward as if recoiling from what it carried. I didn’t unwrap it. It undressed itself.

And then it began.

The sound didn’t play. It entered. Poured in like floodwater, too dark to reflect light, slinking under the door, pressing into every seam and socket. The room changed shape around it. The oxygen spoilt. Breathing tasted like grief. Or old paper wet with holy water. Like biting down on a confession still warm from someone else’s mouth.

The guitar hunts. Every note comes at you low and slow, glass-eyed, teeth bared but smiling. Hungry, but patient. There’s a rhythm to their movement—the kind predators have when they know there’s nowhere left to run. The tone isn’t distorted—it’s disfigured. Bent into the shape of a face you almost recognise, until it blinks.

The drums? Footsteps. Not metaphorically—exactly. Not running, not rushed. Just… there. Constant. Measured. A presence that keeps its distance only to remind you that distance means nothing when you sleep.

And then, the voices. They shouldn’t know your name. But they do. They say it the way a mirror might whisper if left uncovered too long. It’s not just raspy—it’s ruined. A mouth stitched closed and forced open again. Something scarred learning to sing through its damage. It doesn’t ask to be let in. It describes your bedroom. It tells you what you dreamed about last week. It laughs at the door you forgot to lock.

Tracks like Uninvited, When I Do Wrong, The Only One’—aren’t songs. They’re rehearsals. For things you’ve tried not to imagine. They catalogue future sins with exquisite detail. Not if—but when. They never escalate. They linger. Lullabies for the already damned.

When the final track (Uninvited – Red Wedding Remix) withers into silence, the quiet isn’t empty. It’s occupied. You can feel the CD crouched somewhere in the room. Under the bed. Behind the armoire. Between the walls, maybe. It doesn’t play anymore because it’s listening now. Learning. Syncing itself to your pulse.

The Gospel doesn’t want an audience. It wants a vessel. And now that you’ve let it in—even once—you’re marked.

You’re heard. You’re held.
And it is so very patient.
Score 10/10
Track List
Like A Prayer
Uninvited
What I Do Wrong
Lord Can You Hear Me
The Only One
Like A Prayer (Dirty Vicar Remix)
Uninvited (Red Wedding Remix)