In almost every documented encounter with the music of Wovenhand, what is described is an experience so visceral and so universally disorienting, that one has to take note.  From the first measures of music, the taste of desert earth is on the lips; neck-hairs snap to attention as strange and unfamiliar sounds whisper just underneath the surge of guitar and the rumble of bass; clouds loom on the horizon promising either the balm of rain or the threat of judgment — it could be either.  The smell of horses’ breath, like ash, carries with it messages from another place, a place that is at once very very far away and impossibly close…  The music of Wovenhand is its own iconography, its own world, its own universe.