Chelsea Wolfe’s music is terrifying. Chelsea Wolfe herself, thank God, is not. Serene, kind, funny and thoughtful, sitting in a Brooklyn coffee-shop that turned out to be (surprise!) a sweaty half-mile walk from her hotel on a searing late-summer day, Wolfe in no way conjures the woman tortured by hell-sent wasp swarms who can be heard wailing on her increasingly well-received records.
The latest, which has brought her to New York, is Abyss (Sargent House), a lunar eclipse of an album rife with fuzzy, grinding industrial synths, chiming metallic guitars, and the kind of stunning ethereal vocals that recall those of the Cocteau Twins’ Elizabeth Fraser, but huskier, fuller, sadder.
Precocious when it comes to music (she began writing songs in grade school), Wolfe came to weed relatively late, especially…