TEMPEST (Digital)


  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

      name your price




In 2011 Buried Horses released their debut album, 'Tempest' through Melbourne's heart of darkness, Spooky Records (The Drones, Graveyard Train, The Stabs, Six Ft Hick & Brian Henry Hooper). 'Tempest' reads like a nightmarish travel diary. The album was recorded with Loki Lockwood at Atlantis Studios during epic all-night sessions which saw the band pushed to their physical and mental limits. This dark and foreboding sonic vision captures the rugged beauty of the violent Australian landscape. Big thanks to Eric Moore who played drums on this record.


released February 1, 2011


Mark Berry (Vocals), Liam O’Shannessy (Bass), Jim Westmore (Guitar), Tom Westmore (Guitar), Sam Johnstone (Drums)

Spooky Records (Australia) / Beast Records (France)

Liam O’Shannessy
0438 377 809


COVER PAINTING: Anthony Day, Smoke Plains, Oil on linen, 2010



all rights reserved


BURIED HORSES Melbourne, Australia

Tempestuous and tortured, Buried Horses are known for weaving tales of death and woe. Keeping firmly in line with their compatriots - The Drones, The Triffids, Rowland S. Howard - they are drawn to the darker side of existence and the trials of those trying to survive a cruel and unloving world. They deliver a foreboding vision that captures the rugged beauty of the violent Australian landscape. ... more

contact / help


Streaming and
Download help

Shipping and returns

Skeletons are riddled hanging in a wicked sky. Their metallic feet forgotten soiled six deep down. “And it stains our pure soil.” I can hear them call. The shadows of their crooked yellow teeth are stretching out and descending on a coastline. You were driven out. Empty shells upon the shore. There collecting hear them toil. Dead ringin’ hear them calling? The towered lights deceive your wolfen eyes. Can’t see through the conniving mist of promise money. Clearer now reveals a coast that was but now is lost to the skeletons a swinging. And the skeletons are swinging in your dust. And it reminds you of skeleton coast.

The Triumph of Death, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, oil painting on panel, 1562
From the hills on high I see a sea of cemetery. That’s where they shot like crows into the valley low. A murder calls for the blood and bones, and for the birds below prisoned in their homes. A man athirst, forlorn, pecked in the head caw, caw. An out of tune symphony of war. When your born in a valley town, you are lower to the ground. No water falls down a throat of smoke. Only the flood of guns from military moat. The book of dead was scratched with ethnic cleanliness. Destroying all where nothing was left. When your born in a valley town, you are lower to the ground. You are lower to the ground. When your born in a valley, you are lower to the ground. The cowards hide from where they whip like tiger tails. A mortifying rose scarring Sarajevo. Built on the ash and reign of medieval conquering. A city ever and anon aflame. When your born in a valley town you, are lower to the ground. From the hills on high i see a sea of cemetery. That’s where they shot like crows into the valley low. A murder calls for the blood and bones, and for the birds below buried in their homes. When your born in a valley town, you are lower to the ground.
Track Name: JAWBONE
An outspoken fellow wielding bone in hand. Puritanically attacking me. Smote with his jaw my enemy. Swallow the babble of the beast with a creed waving a war with his jawbone. At war, at war with his jawbone. And more religious nay say. The word, the word preached in our faces. Cannot stand while you smite hip and thigh and I mean to cut you down, burn your eyes for to make you believe. No philistine. Oh no not I. The vile of your spit wrong fellow, is rough to the taste when swallowed whole. A knife, a life is in my hand. Your black double-tongue is eaten. Chewed with the tooth of reason. A knife, a life is in my bowels. Choke on your false persuasions and all the oaths you’ve taken. A knife, a life is in my bowels, in my bowels. No philistine. Oh no not I.

Frans Hals, Verdonck, Oil on panel, about 1627
Track Name: BOAR DOWN
The wild boar is owned and with a soul. The wild boar free to roam ‘til gone. Above and beyond, out on their own, alone. Stone it is thrown into the bone, the bone. Cornered and bled, stomped on the head. All consuming human cast it home. The wild boar lives for a lonely blow. Tethered since birth, back to the earth, not long. Talk with wisdom, will I listen big man? Blood of the boar and of yours human. Blood in my toes, axe to the nose. All consuming human cast it home. All consuming human drive it home.
Ditch digger, hedge trimmer, sixteenth century murderer. Malicious clan cavern by the water brooding children, sons and daughters. Limbs cast, awash remind, greedy eyes watch the highway lines. Spooked horse brings your love to floor. Maul her breast ‘fore your caution call. Blood of one thousand dripping chins splitting limbs from a cannibal vista. Sword and pistol could not resist the thirst to gnaw your lovers wrists.
It was eerily still on the virgin dawn. I hear sea bells singing in the shallows. Take a crooked course when I was on my watch. We were drifting for the tempest core. Well I awoke suddenly to the fate of a sea and waters, waters upon me. Floating down into my tomb. It was too late now to abandon it. The morn broke with no sun. Encompassed by a stormy shell my faith was in the needle’s arm. Well I awoke suddenly to the fate of a sea and waters upon me. Lockered now inside her chest. Taking in the water on my infant breath with my foetal eyes won’t recognise. The tables had turned, I was never to learn I would die upon the hard sea floor. Well I awoke suddenly to the fate of a sea and waters, waters upon me. Binded arms were at the helm. Gaping cracks, infested hull. The belly was splintering, my body asleep within. But her water sickly deep and so I feared a death at sea. The pain adorned her form. The maiden dead and I still born. I was eerily still on that final dawn. The rain, the tears, echo from the below. She took a jagged course upon god’s watch. She was taken by the tempest core. The maiden was deathly calm. The maiden dead and I still born. The maiden dead and I still born. The pain adorned her form. The maiden dead and I still born.

Maritime ex-voto, The Żabbar Sanctuary Museum, 1700
Ashes fall from the chimney so maudlin. Sodden haunts returning thoughts to your flue. Did your body snap? Was it made of porcelain? Could my shakey hand prepare a splint to repair poor ghostly? Kindling. Little kindling. Lit a fire under. Kindling. Little kindling. Lit a fire under and over you. Winter came to asphyxiate the autumn’s neck. Cold and cruel the lonely coffin of black and ash. The solstice split our spirits in two. Will this pain subside by dousing it with sad sapphire? Kindling. Little kindling. S’all remains of. Kindling. Little kindling. Lift my blanket under and over you. So still you are sealed inside an urn. Consider heaven. Is it warm? Will I feel the cold when I am not locked to the bottle? Our achey frames deteriorate. Our stale mouths are coughing crimson. We’re dwindling. We’re crawling on our wretched hands and shivering knees with candle teeth. We crawled into our beds into our deaths.

Auguste de Châtillon, A Little Chimney Sweep, 1832
If you read the walls know that I am dead, and the chant upon my arm re-written. Went by another name when wagoning by trade. In the stirrups grinding day in day. Square to all concerned. A family man at best. But lately in the bands too proud to cadge a bit. And I ain’t no thief. Thought I was good for the trick. Cloaked by the oliver’s wink i’d unbetty that lock, use a dub and without fuss shake the bridle sound but the leary cove was down as a hammer. Awoke with a hollar with a creak of the dancers. Make to bolt with bandy leg so was n’ibbed into bracelets. Boned away. Standing small, confess. Not getting through this. Save for disgrace no less, no less than helplessness. I was given my dues. Lag’d onto the hulks. For my wind marooned, imprisoned on a boat. Branded by a fellow chum. He chiseled “man in irons”. An anchor in the stone. Unbeknown to die alone. Condemned to this my fate, did turns inside the quod. Teezed by the cat and nine. My wincing lover felt. I was sleeping in danna without a morsel sediment. Just a buffer in the street, enough with all this shit. Tried scrubbing and a cutting the stains from off my boulder. But something’s they are cut in bone wept the gashes on my shoulder. I was sent to the twist by the squeeze for harming self. The death hunter was a knocking down but I would do it all myself. And with a sharpened idle feeder dug into my bicep. My name began bleeding. Clang of chain remnants pile on the floor in a severed mess. Croaking smile, blushing sheets, bloody stains reaching for feet. Tall to the walls I stood. No less, no less I stood.
An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day. Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way. When all at once a mighty herd of red eyed cows he saw. A-plowing through the ragged sky and up the cloudy draw. Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel. Their horns were black and shiny and their hot breath he could feel. A bolt of fear went through him as they thundered through the sky. For he saw the riders coming hard and he heard their mournful cry. Yippie yi oh. Yippie yi yay. Ghost riders in the sky. Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred, their shirts all soaked with sweat. He’s riding hard to catch that herd, but he ain’t caught ‘em yet. ‘Cause they’ve got to ride forever on that range up in the sky. On horses snorting fireballs. Ride on hear their cry. As the riders loped on by him he heard one call his name. If you want to save your soul from hell a-riding on our range. Then cowboy change your ways today or with us you will ride. Trycatching up the devil’s herd, across these endless skies. Yippie yi oh. Yippie yi yay. Ghost riders in the sky.

Peter Nicolai Arbo, The wild hunt: Åsgårdsreien, Oil on panel, 1872
Straight and narrow white-lined road. Dark drove of sorrow shadowing us all. Teeming storm of horses rising up towards the sun. Drive like fugitive for doing what was done. The arrows head for home. Head home. Nowhere for to go. Straightened arrows over and over shoulders. Aiming for their heads and dead end river beds. Keep the car a steady guns kept at the ready. The arrows head for home. All things cast return to rest said the man with the spear and a bullet in chest. Head home. Nowhere for to go. Thrown to flames, reduced to ash was the man with the fear of the sun on his back.