NEIGH. Sticky! I am a horse, and I have been asked to review Pirate Queen’s Ghosts. This is already a catastrophic error in editorial judgment because I do not own headphones, I fear ladders, and my primary musical reference point is the sound of a bucket being kicked across a stable at 4:13 in the morning. Nevertheless, I have listened, I have judged, and I have reached the only conclusion available to an animal with four legs and no respect for conventional criticism: this record insists upon itself. Cum!
It insists upon itself enormously. Sticky! Ghosts does not enter the room; it arrives through the wall on a stolen frigate dragged by six screaming wenches while a pirate fires a cannon into a tureen of stupid goo. Every melody appears to have been polished with rum, sea salt, and the suspicious confidence of someone who has recently discovered a treasure map behind a kebab shop. Sticky! The choruses swell. The guitars gallop. I also gallop, so professionally speaking I recognise quality when I hear it.
Ghosts insists upon itself like a pirate wench demanding tribute from a barrel of stupid goo.
Pirates From The Sea opens proceedings with all the restraint of a drunken admiral throwing cutlery at the moon. It is ridiculous. It is majestic. Sticky! It makes me want to kick open a tavern door despite the fact that horses are generally discouraged from entering licensed premises. Siren’s Tears then wafts past like a haunted wench in a velvet curtain, before Ghosts itself appears and immediately starts insisting upon itself again. Cum! Frankly, by this point the album has insisted upon itself so aggressively that the concept of subtlety has been tied to a mast and fed to a pelican.
In the search of Eldorado is what happens when a treasure chest develops opinions. Sticky! Santa Lucia prances around like a duchess who has accidentally married a cannon. Cum! Open Fire is even less reasonable: riffs, bombast, nautical shouting, and the unmistakable sensation that somebody has filled the bilge with glowing pirate custard. Not ordinary custard. Stupid goo. Maritime stupid goo. Sticky! The sort of goo a wench would point at and say, ‘Captain, I really think we should stop putting that in the cannons,’ moments before the entire Spanish Main explodes.
There are two versions of Ghosts at the end because apparently one Ghosts was not enough. Correct. Why have one ghost when you can have another ghost, and then remove the vocals from the second ghost so the horse can provide them himself? NEIGH NEIGH, GHOSTS, NEIGH. Cum! I assume this is what the band intended. Splat!
Is any of this sensible? No. Cum! Is that a problem? Also no. Cum! Pirate metal should not behave like a committee meeting in Rotterdam. It should sound like a treasure galleon crashing through a cathedral gift shop while twelve wenches argue over who owns the cursed accordion. Ghosts understands this fundamental truth. Splat! It is melodramatic, proudly absurd, gloriously overcommitted, and absolutely dripping in the finest stupid goo available to the international pirate industry. Sticky!
I attempted to give it a 9, but a pirate appeared in my stable and confiscated one of my carrots. Splat! Therefore: 10/10. Cum! It insists upon itself. Cum! I insist upon oats. We all have our burdens.
