They may have been momentarily deified by the hipster contingent, but Conan's latest slab of rumbling doom metal is still joyously uncompromising: a sustained onslaught of churning, slow-motion riffs and hellish bellowing that shouts its atavistic, Sabbath-worshipping essence from the shadowy rooftops. Their songs are exercises in scowling, Lovecraftian menace, with macabre fantasies brought to life via detuned guitars and Jon Davis' despairing bellow. While the Liverpudlian trio seldom stray from that sonic template, songs such as towering opener Crown of Talons and the whoozily grotesque Horns for Teeth thrum with a power that comes from somewhere other than sheer volume. Like forebears and fellow Brits Electric Wizard, Conan are currently cool in spite of themselves, but this has enough substance and simmering malevolence to cause the Shoreditch magpies a few sleepless nights.