With a discography to die for, our favourite black metal innovators, Enslaved, are back and they have something new hiding up their wizard sleeves. Here, on their fourteenth long-player, they exercise their love for the Norse god of War, Odin, and they sem hell-bent on honouring his notorious wanderlust.
For their opener, “Storm Son”, the band usher us gently onto their battlefield with a series of emotive sound effects, before launching into eleven minutes of weaving sinuous guitar riffery that rides over abrasive blackened hilltops and down into soft, richly-decorated auditory valleys. It’s a track that burns with originality, is excitingly honest and heart-breakingly beautiful in its organic design.
The game is clearly afoot but they aren’t playing ball and quickly settle back into playing something approximating their more traditional sound for “The River’s Mouth”. New keyboardist and clean vocalist Håkon Vinje really rises to the fore in this tumbling, galloping song providing a wonderfully soothing, yet catchy ethereal chorus and a craftily woven mesh of warm synth.
With the prog-heavy, distorted organ sounds of “Sacred Horse” and the eerily psychedelic wash of “Axis Of The World” dragging us once again through the mill, you begin to get a sense of this new manic force driving the ideas machine. It is clear that Vinje has played a major role in the creation of this scattergun collection of sonic thrusts.
The band wrap things up with “Hiindsiight” proving to be the moody, doom-laden moment to release the saxophone solos of Kjetil Møster. As he lets forth a torrent of apocalyptic squeals and sharp blasts it becomes clear that we are once more in the grip of another masterful work from these legendary Norwegians. Even if it struggles to reach the insane emotional peaks of Riitiir or the ferocious black metal crush of Eld, it still slots easily into their increasingly unsurpassable back catalogue.
Also online @ Ave Noctum = http://www.avenoctum.com/2017/10/enslaved-e-nuclear-blast/
With vast swathes of blustering labyrinthine riffing and warm, throaty vocals, this smacks of New Wave of American Heavy Metal yet brings it back home with a rich, thrashed-up thread running through its core.
From the off, “Gospel Untold” offers up a rich amalgamation of groove, death, power and thrash. The scattergun riffing, winding leads, focussed roars and battering drums scramble to get at you as if from every angle. Following close behind, the title-track pulls back a little from the storming pace but is no less impacting. Think Sylosis’ on top-form and you’ll get an idea of the crush that these guys’ can produce when they hit top gear. Liam Turland’s complex and virulent drum insanity deserves a special mention as he produces panicky rolls that come at you in waves, a crisp snare, punchy double-kick and supremely tight drops and change-ups. A ‘core-loving perfectionist might suggest that the breakdowns need to smack down harder and more often, but we’re splitting hairs here..
Tracks like “Victim” and “What You’ve Done” have the instant gratification that marks out bands like Lamb of God and All Shall Perish but also mimic the longer game and offered by the tech-minded – think Black Crown Initiate or Trigger The Bloodshed. The lyrics are intense and filthy enough to fire up a crowd – “I will not rest while you’re still alive / Don’t say a fucking word” (“Victim”) even comes complete with dropout and Randy Blythe-esque “whooooop”. Or perhaps you prefer the last line from “Sentiment”… “For safe keeping I will cut out your heart / I am living all my dreams”. That’s sick, man.
Over 36 rancid minutes, this Northampton quintet produce gem after gem, alternating their attack with either a co-ordinated bass and drum power move, or by firing up their range of winding, interwoven melodics. The track “From Eden To Exile”, stripped of complexity and not nearly as playful, is about the only thing that feels a little laboured. The rest is solid gold and, having seen them live, I can assure they bring just as much force and fire to the stage too. If you dig music that puts up a damned good fight, you’ve come to the right place.
Grabbing the chance to wade into Royal Thunder’s world is always a bit of a pleasure. The Atlantan quartet are right up my alley often warping the softer edges of classic rock and grunge with deft psych touches to create a warm, unctuous sound. New album, Wick, has promised to offer something a little different though so we’ll see in which direction they’ve veered.
It’s a slow, melancholic start with Mlny Parsonz’ strong, part-growled vocal outpourings, saving the weak MOR melodies, rhythmic plodding and cloying, overwrought threads from anonymity. Happily, as the tempo picks up, to coincide with the rollicking force of “The Sinking Chair”, the disparate structures begin to mesh together and throb beautifully. Her vocal even kicks into growl mode and the twisted overdrive in Josh Weaver’s guitar really ram home the band’s intent and passion. It’s a right old rocker all wrapped up in bookends of feedback.
There’s elements of stoner plod, dirty pop and blues boogie in here, but it’s the rich vein of frazzled country that shines through strongest of all. The balletic “Plans” is pure Black Crowes, the over-dramatics and soporific nature of “Push” and “The Well” are tinged with Creedence and Fleetwood Mac, whilst the lilting kick and rattle of “Anchor” is delivered with a sneer, a swagger and a truckful of capricious intensity that only comes from extended Country & Western immersion – I bet they recorded it wearing ten gallon hats.
Ultimately it’s the weaker numbers, such as the loose-limbed “We Slipped” and the wheedling, naval-gazing title-track that leave this coming up short of their best material. Despite the clipped song structures, multi-instrumentalism and new clean lines they are sporting this, by no means, is an album that has strayed too far from the nest but it does come fired up by this strong sense of purpose. It’s interesting to notice that Parsonz found making the album a bit of a struggle. “It was a fight, but to hear it now, to see it finished, is so gratifying. I’m looking at it, going we’re done, it’s over, be free.” For me, the overwhelming sense from reading that quote is one of relief, rather than achievement. Let’s hope that the pieces fall into place a little easier next time.
What Austrian J.J. (the artist formerly known as V. Wahntraum) does is a mouthful, but what the one-man Austrian band calls himself is not. He dabbles in ambient-oriented, post-atmospheric black metal but he simply calls his project KARG.
Weltenasche is his fifth full-length studio album and is the first to be completely performed in the dialect J.J. grew up with and which is spoken around the mountains of his hometown. Being gloomy and emotional, you’ll pick up subtle hints of Alcest and Lantlôs in here.
Take, “Crevasse”. It’s an 11-minute opener that lays bare his tonal calling card. Part-ambient, part-aggressive, the construction is detailed and invites introspection. It’s steady opening and resplendent chiming background is quickly obliterated by a viciously shrieked vocal that repeatedly drowns the softly-spoken underscore whilst the introduction of massively-distorted guitar scrawl kicks it fully into submission.
The rhythm bucks and shakes as the drum patterns shift constantly making it tough to grab a firm grip on proceedings. The juxtaposition of rough and smooth creates an antagonistic power play but the overall sense of drama is unerring. Melancholia envelops all – easy-listening this is not.
By the end of third track, “Le Couloir De Ombres”, we are already well over 30 minutes into this beast with the promise of at least another 45 minutes to go and already the abrupt key changes and panicky, affected nature of the song-writing is causing heart-palpitations. Grinding on as I must I find the shackles tightening and crave freedom. It becomes beyond oppressive, I start to writhe, burn, itch and fester. Not due to the extreme nature of the music, but the incessant, imposing structures that obliterate one another. It makes no sense.
It’s a tough one – these could all be special places to the right ear, but to mine the levels of perseverance required to fully engage the bronco requires me to strip my psyche to the bone. Each vast piece takes us careering into uncharted territory. Through NWOBHM, 80s kitsch, recordings of blazing rows and into incendiary spots of classical music.
Ultimately it is the dull, recycling chord structures that kill it. This is J.J.’s own all-consuming psychosis, not ours. It’s just too easy an album to walk away from. Without rules, there is only chaos and this is what miserably deliberate, self-absorbed chaos sounds like.
Pennsylvania’s Black Crown Initiate, like all good Steelmen, know how to
craft good metal. Bursting from the quintet’s take on progressive death
metal, you can hear inspired work from such gargantuan sources as
Meshuggah, Periphery and Between The Buried And Me. They employ a
variety of vocal techniques and splash them across a canvas of technical
heaviosity loaded with richly-layered atmospherics.
If their 2014 debut, The Wreckage Of Stars, was anything to go by, BCI
enjoy leaving scars. This sophomore delves deep into the human psyche by
laying bare Man’s history of inhumanity, terror, destruction and
genocide. It explores such emotions as hatred, lust, self-loathing,
pain, loss, hopelessness and sorrow. The suggested end game? A period of
serious introspection and self-discovery resulting ultimately in
suicidal self-sacrifice. You have been warned – it cuts deep this one.
It also marks a continued exploration of their sound as they delve into
their bag of progressive tricks fishing out music with multiple
structures and deft segues. The vocal hooks this time tend to come from
resplendent cleans rather than explosive death roars and the shaping of
the songwriting anchors the BCI ship on firmer, more familiar ground.
Which, of course, is not to say it won’t challenge the listener – fans
of their debut, in particular should expect the unexpected.
The natural drift of the album allows for their more intense songs to
play out first, so you should cover up early. With “For Red Cloud” and
“Belie The Machine” punching out mammoth staccato chugs and a barking
death vocal they actually echo the majestic, extra-terrestrial battering
that the Texan-Maryland trio Of Legends once supplied. The lyrical
wordplay agonises to the point of melancholia and keeps on heading ever
downwards. Barbarous, addictive rise-and-fall choruses fire home their
arrows with pinpoint accuracy. For example, “Our god is full of sorrow /
Our god is one of pain”, from the intensely experimental “Sorrowpsalm”,
or the brightly-coloured chorus of “We will meet at beginning’s end and
start again / Just in time for us to live, we’ll die again”, from
“Again”.
These boys write proper songs, not just a jarring collection of words
and music, and in a genre like death metal that is a rare thing to find.
Naturally, that can be attributed to their technical metal leanings and
the willingness to cross multiple genres to create beauty amid the
brutality. It brings them more in line with bands like Monuments and The
Contortionist, yet even these comparisons don’t do them justice. Take
the title-track for example. It’s a simple design with a cyclical
structure onto which you can latch. Yet within lies sequencing that
progresses through a gentle opening swing of piano and string arpeggio
with a matching euphoric vocal clean. The explosive rip into a porcine
death growl then allows the bass to bubble to the fore to meet a
cushioned power rock solo. It’s organic design is truly disconcerting
when you consider each part separately.
They don’t always nail it and some tracks certainly require repeated
plays just to unscramble your brain and make sense of the chaos. I mean,
on what planet could you find strong hits of Sylosis’ shredding meeting
BTBAM’s manic seguing (see “Transmit To Disconnect”) or Skyharbor’s
lush choruses folding into the brutalising death of Annotations Of An
Autopsy (“Matriarch”)?
Selves We Cannot Forgive feels like BCI’s first true step into the
unknown. Here, they have engaged themselves fully in the songwriting
process, carving themselves an individual sound by exploring the range
of their own abilities. It should see them take ever more confident,
inspirational steps as they look ever deeper into their own selves.
Marked up as
psychic AOR, Sink’s latest offering is far more subversive than that
initial description suggests. It is, after all, an exploration into the
reasons behind man’s very existence, deconstructing his own
self-awareness – pure waffle or a valuable assessment? Naturally, any
work that credits the occultist Genesis P-Orridge and mystic Therese
Neumann is going to challenge our own conceptions of the self.
As an example of the depths we are plunging here, the PR blurb that
accompanies this offers us the enigmatic line – “The history of music is
merely fuel to be burned”. It’s a bastardization of an Ayn Rand quote
but this and other half-spoken observations throughout the album are our
stark warning that we are expected to look beyond the obvious for this
one.
Think on that as you swim into the opener, “Hunger” and that glowing,
buzzing, chiming warp which lurks behind a wall of monotonous, lyrical
chaos.The switch-up that follows tickles the band’s folk souls, powering
down to bring us echoing pipes and a blackened, melancholic lament.
Oddly, “Dream Map” forms the link between tracks one and two, ingesting
parts of each and throwing in a crackling fire, ironworked effects and a
slow 80’s synth.
Never ones to rest in one place, the synthetic pulse of “Consolation”
offers up another change of tone, drawing inspiration from such diverse
sources as Jean-Michel Jarre and 65daysofstatic. With no real direction
it feels odd and misplaced – a snatch of something unbidden and
incomplete. Much of what you’ll experience here though is merely that –
more quick grabs at the ether than true songs.
As an example of this “Crystal Ship” is seemingly just a series of
sounds thrown together. Part-industrial, part-tribal, a repeating
single-note it conjures a dark, occluded picture driven by anger to the
point where disintegration is the only exit strategy. Quite mental,
oddly disturbing and yet curiously mesmeric. Likewise, the arena echo of
“Terminal”, is at its heart just a sequence of recorded sounds. Passing
traffic that morphs into the pounding of train wheels on a track. Then,
there’s “World Asthma” – a minute of slow piano split asunder by static
interference – it achieves what exactly? I’m losing my patience here.
Happily, “So We’ll Go No More A-Roving” does carry a purpose. It’s a
slow, doomy, boy-girl lament; a Vangelis-esque tale of love dripping
with real sentiment.
Yes, at it’s core Ark Of Contempt… is just a series of
fiercly deconstructed songs, hammered, kneaded, and teased out into
simplistic musical threads. It’s a melancholic album with a bold,
dynamic range and those with inquiring, open minds will find it both
invigorating and thought-provoking. However it does require a largesse
of patience to escape the rigid, spartan structures and some will find
it lacking in colour. On the plus side, it’s unafraid of ditching the
vocal lines where necessary and, consequently leaves room for the
acoustic-only tracks to release the grey matter from too much torturous
instruction.
Formed in 2012, this release marks the eponymous debut album from the
doom-friendly quartet from Portland, Oregon. Sounding like a mind-meld
between the cauldron-staring Black Pyramid, the dynamic Blues Pills, and
the fantasy riff-chucking of The Sword, Holy Grove’s self-titled debut
focusses on pitching buzzing stoner into 70s doom riffs that glisten
with Lovecraftian intent.
Opener “Death of Magic” swings a sackful of big hearty bass, ladles
on the groove and rocks you from pillar to post. Throughout fuzz-driven
guitar riffs pitch and yaw all around whilst Vidal’s softly echoing
vocal floats above it all. Her determinedly heartfelt cries bear a
striking similarity to the storming output from Acid King’s Lori S.
Further in, “Nix” pulls out some feisty hooks and chucks in more
psychedelic noodling before dropping into a half-time cosmic crawl to
end. The heartstone of the piece though is the one-two segued caress of
the title-track and the addictive bluesy lines of “Huntress”. They bear
emotion that grips and won’t let go – “Kneel down at the altar”, indeed.
The Sabbathian-influenced “Caravan” wraps itself around the classic
riff of the aforementioned’s “Evil Woman” before the 9-minuter, “Hanged
Man”, with its dark chanting and punishing, warped overdrive tips a hat
to Saint Vitus and seals the deal.
They’ve clearly had a ball making this album; you can hear the glee
in their riff worship. Their continued deference to the metal gods of
times past works for them as it stands up on its own – a stonking
creation. Yep, there’s nothing truly innovational here but it’s still a
thoroughly joyful experience and they are deservedly going down a storm
in the live arena.
Crippled Black Phoenix have always been a hard one to pin down to a
single genre so its no surprise to find multi-instrumentalist Justin
Greaves still warping any pre- or mis-conceptions we may have of his
band. This long-playing EP comes hot on the heels of last year’s White Light Generator – an album that marked their 10th anniversary.
Having tackled the emotional journey from stoner doom to freak folk
they continue their homage to the likes of Pink Floyd by covering their
classic composition “Echoes” from the 1971 album Meddle. Here
they strongly echo the source material yet manage to expand it from its
original 23-minute running time, employing some neat little tricks and
charming affectations, to a whopping 37-minuter in two parts. Definitely
a melange that Floyd fans will want to check out.
The two original tracks here provide most insight into their
evolution. With trumpets and gunshots opening the album the scene is set
by “Spider Island”… something wicked this way comes. Slow, clean, dark
instrumentation with a long, languid, deeply affected vocal brings the
constituent parts to climax somewhere between the damaged grunge of
Soundgarden and the dizzying wash of Monster Magnet.
Nestling up to this
the title-track and album focal point is a psychedelic journey down a
more occult side-road. Big on cyclical effects, pinged bass and warming
Hammond organ, the structural twists stand out like bullet-points. The
central rhythmic break is a doozy, lingering within an echoic chamber of
Jarre-ish Oxygene effects. From here, the instrumental
patterning continues to morph until It becomes apparent that the track
has already reached its peak and lost its sense of direction long before
it meanders to a close.
A record that is not without fault then, but one that sits pretty on its perch.
Upon forming, back in 2010, Winnipeg’s Wilt’s original intention was
to create a black metal studio-only project. Since, the duo of guitarist
Brett Goodchild and vocalist Jordan Dorge have assembled a full lineup
and have started hitting the festival circuit with a bit of success.
Now, for this, their debut long-player, the quintet bring us four
snaking tracks of blackened doom filled with buckets of blast beats,
swathes of dissonance, extended chord couplets and the standard fayre of
screeching, drone-tastic, monochromatic, acid-gargling vocals direct
from the colourless lips of the undead themselves.
What hits you hardest of all, besides Dorge’s toasted throat, is the
lack of warmth or colour in their music. It’s to be expected considering
the subject matter offers “a unique glimpse into the human condition,
for all its faults, heartbreak and despair” but it is no less of a shock
to find it so brutally emotionless in the way in which it dissects the
insidious disease within.
Right from the off, they fire up the slow, atmospheric doom machine.
When the freezing blasts of drum and screech eventually kick in they cut
through the fog like a shadowy, howling phantom. The downbeat tone and
dark portents hit home and the temperature plummets. Beware the tuneless
quality of “The Elder” – it is particularly nasty and relentlessly
unforgiving. You absolutely get the sense of the horror and of the soul
being torn asunder.
With each of the first three tracks cruising on past the 11-minute
mark, all the while hammering their mournful tune with the same
monochromatic attack and pitch, it really is heavy-going. The crumb of
comfort here is the variation of pace which allows for some particularly
neat shifts in vehemence. After 41 excruciating minutes it seems safe
to surmise that this really is a work bereft of joy.
With so little variation and such a harsh, caustic attack marrying
itself to the depressive tone, it’s not going to be everyone’s cup of
tea but, as they probably say in Canada, if you don’t like the cold, get
out of the fridge.
Blackened death with hints of post-metal, proto-punk, and occultism,
London’s Shrines are nothing if not inventive. Their combination of
emotion and rhythm paints a series of visceral sounds splattered with
bright phrasing. Raw and uncompromising it reeks of their lust,
self-loathing and comes loaded with the explosive aggression of their
inner punk.
The first run-through of this experimental debut will have you
scratching your head whilst marvelling at their adaptability. Allow the
collision of soft melodics and brutalistic rhythms to wash over you and
you’ll start to feel the dark concept begin to snag your mind. You’ll
suddenly feel like the essential cog in their machine; the key to
connecting the dots.
From the all-consuming introduction of rattling double-kick and
ritualistic chanting that encompasses “Ariadne’s Thread” through to the
otherwordly moaning and jagged rise-and-fall blitzkrieg that forms
“Truth”, this debut album is one wild rollercoaster ride of
genre-crossing that pitches and tosses you along whilst sneaking attacks
from every conceivable angle. The jagged rhythms, slo-mo chugs and
exploding cosmic experimentalism of tracks like “The Drowned” and
“Eternal Return” feel like some bizarre Vreid / Wolves In The Throne
Room / Mastodon musical collision.
In stark contrast, the majestic 6-minute centre-piece “Of The Wolf”
is the key to the piece. Working like a finger to the lips it is
dramatic, incisive and other-worldly. Inevitably it is the key that
opens the door into understanding the band and the album. Without it the
the thing wouldn’t have a mooring.
If drummer Daniel Blackmore is the tormenting villain of the piece
then vocalist Sam Loynes (Voices, ex-Ackercocke) is equally as divisve.
He switches between smooth melodics, antagonistic roars and pig squeals
with apparent ease. Check out “Multitude Of Sin” for his full range – it
is one track that really has fun bending genre boundaries. Staid,
dyed-in-the wool, anodyne? Shrines are not.
It does feel slightly dissolute as a complete work and tends to ties
itself in knots when simplicity is called for. However, when the
backline tightens up, it provides the perfect canvas for the musical
theatrics and vocal gymnastics to really make an impression.
Hailing from the American heartlands yet taking their name for the Swedish for “the water is whispering”, Vattnet Viskar have always been an innovative, multi-faceted band. On the one hand, their clear first love is for the more familial strains of second wave black metal with its speeding double-kick, cascading chords and vocal scowling. On the other, their nous for conjuring strong grooves and melancholic, progressive noodling allows for a deeper connection to the various outlying strains of the genre.
Spending months rather than weeks writing this latest effort allowed the band to really stretch themselves. Bassist Casey Aylward explains: “I think we had a lot of time in the studio to mess around with details and textures… we were diving into different territories a lot on this record”. This extra time taken meant they were keen to find a producer who could bring the most out of the wealth of this fresh-sounding material and so they searched out Sanford Parker (Yob, Twilight). He certainly seems to have given the music more colour than much of their previous material and has retained the visceral edge that so defines them.
Firing us into a squall of feedback, “Dawnlands” sets the pace with classic lines and dark portents before “Colony” picks up the baton and introduces a strident, battle-hardened groove to proceedings. Here, the lyrics begin to disintegrate into binary and the structure and pacing quick-steps between the track’s many facets. Like some bizarre, mutated combination of Lamb Of God’s “Straight For The Sun”, Isis’ “Wavering Radiant” and Steak Number Eight’s “Photonic”, the magical post-doom of “Yearn” settles into a memorable, cyclical riff accompanied by a roared vocal hook. It takes just these three tracks together for us to establish our place upon Settler‘s musical roundabout.
Like its neighbour, the accurately-titled “Glory” similarly takes its influence from the post-metal kinks of Isis, yet summons their more explosive side, piling raging power on top of Nicholas Thornbury’s maniacal, howled vocal. It pitches us straight into the slowly-emerging structure and hefty theatrics of the truly epic “Heirs”. It’s a track that whisks us from speeding metallic grunt to drifting melodics and barbarous, deathly grooves before finally cramming us into the closing dynamic oblivion of something truly special.
Most certainly there are weaknesses in the album, but these are confined to the odd disrupting stumble between segues and a failure to fully-integrate the faster, less accessible parts. The fans should be happy with the result but mere passers-by may find themselves alienated by the looser, more ragged hits of “Impact” and the title-track. What cannot be disputed is Vattnet Viskar’s desire to experiment. From the very first glance of that conflicted and emotionally-cutting front cover (a recreated photo of a beaming Christa McAuliffe training for NASA’s ill-fated 1986 Challenger mission) right through to Settler‘s closing combination of melody and feedback, the band are seeking to expand our minds and their own. They toy with a huge concept by applying varying degrees of pacing and atmospherics. The end result isn’t flawless but it is, ultimately, beguiling.
With Secrets Of The Sky’s sophomore effort they really have thrown caution to the wind, tweaking their delivery and content to fully realise an album with one continuous, free-flowing storyline. It picks up from the very point where their scintillating debut, To Sail Black Waters, left us. Thus, after the rigours of an ocean-bound journey, we find ourselves tramping from the shore along the Pathway which leads down into echoing caverns where cackling witches lie in wait to torture and burn the emotions from us.
Thus, with something akin to the storytelling of Agalloch, Anathema or Alcest whilst drunk on Sabbathian doom and Opethian melancholy, the Californian quintet unveil an opus with cold, bleak beginnings leading to later forays into their harder, darker material.
Now, 13 tracks for a band like SOTS would indicate a complete change of tack. It is with some relief, then, that once you’ve got past the superb concept of having seven short, tension-building, feeder sound recordings then you’re left with a mere six full-lengths to pore over. Yes, it’s a gimmick to separate one type from the other but at least they don’t hide them behind complex titles, opting for simple Roman numeral formatting instead.
Following the introductory crashing of waves upon a shoreline (which also neatly bookends the album), they serve up “Three Swords” and our first taste of Garett Gazay’s clean vocal, which rises from amidst a swathe of minor keys, starting at a whisper, continuing through to strident song and finally into his more recognisable blackened shriek and roar. Initially the light, melancholic tone can make the clean vocal feel tentative, weak and, dare it be said, tuneless and at times overtly preachy. It’s hard to ignore the way they baby-step you into the album with dull, cyclical phrases such as “lying on a river” (from “Three Swords”), or “love this [life]” and “I don’t care anymore” (from “Another Light”) but they are balanced by the simple joys provided by the shrewd folk metal crunch of “Angels In Vine” and the brilliantly dark split-delivery of “Garden Of Prayers”, with the latter-half subtly hinting at the enigmatic delivery of Palms’ Chino Moreno.
Echoing footsteps upon a stone path, via the obstacles of trickling water, inhuman chuntering, industrial clanking and mantra chanting, have somehow led us inevitably to a roaring fire and the gloriously-consuming, black-edged “Fosforos”. It’s the signal for all-hell to let loose and the change of pace and instant freedom that comes with it is palpable. The chugs become more fervent and the screech and roars unhinged as the flames lick around our feet. Then, with a final flourish they power home their masterpiece, “Eternal Wolves”, which effortlessly combines the album’s constituent parts to create a single, unforgettable microcosm that positively glows from within with sweeping builds, chiming threads and poisonous barbs right through to that final guillotine moment.
There’s no doubting the sonic shift from the threatening, gritty malice of their debut to something more subtle, mournful and introspective. In its final moments, the picture is revealed in glorious monochrome. There are also definite bonus points here for ignoring the usual charade of tracklisting the heavier material up front, and thereby adhering to the ‘journey’ and the gradual unveiling of the concept. Consequently, the album flows beautifully through all of its rises and falls. Sure, it isn’t without its weaknesses, but it’s a Pathway I’d heartily recommend you walk.
Well, dang, here’s an album with a full-blown strut-worthy, stomp-happy boogie backline. And yet Death Alley isn’t exactly a moniker that you’d associate with such a stone cold groove is it? It turns out that Black Magick Boogieland wasn't, in fact, created by a bunch of full-bearded rednecks sippin’ beer and drivin’ Cadillacs. No, these fellas hail from Amsterdam and have a bit of a dark side. Amongst their cultish brethren is ex-The Devil’s Blood guitarist Oeds Beydals and former members of niche punk band Gewapend Beton and psychedelic doomsters Mühr. Considering their love for a boogie and a good freak-out as much as they do a bit of rough-and-ready, they clearly form a bit of a unique marriage of styles. It’s a sound that draws influence from both past and contemporary music – bands such as Down, Humble Pie, Audrey Horne, Blue Öyster Cult and Foghat.
From the off, they set a breakneck pace with “Over Under” gifting frontman Douwe the opportunity to begin firing out his snarls and yells over the feisty, warm string-work of Beydals’. All good so far, yet it seems they’re not quite the “psychedelic protopunks” they claim to be either. However, there is a dark underbelly to this that should be confronted.
They really are serious about that Black Magick part, you see. There are haunting moans lurking in the background and there’s a significant degree of menace in the way he yells “You’re gonna get it!” Oddly, there’s a definite backing drop-out which accompanies such a vehement statement - it’s suddenly all a bit unnerving. Then, for the swinging title-track they invite you to peek “behind the curtain” to a place where they practice the dark arts. Here, there’s tripped-out lines such as “You’re impregnated with a magical charm, cross-contaminated to make you small” to contend with and also a real seedy tone struggling to fight through the sashaying rhythmic vibes.
As the constituent parts of the music diametrically oppose each other, it’s easy to find the vocal tone something of a jarring hindrance to the glowing bluesy wash of what lies beyond it. However, when Douwe slows his roll, as he does for “Golden Fields of Love”, it all finally begins to mesh and “Alles Komt Goed” as they say in the ‘Dam.
They do finally concede to Beydals will for the closing seven-and-a-half minutes of the album allowing him full rein to jam, solo and consequently send us grooving into a state of utter bliss. It’s the icing on the cake that makes the track “Supernatural Predator”, with its rich kaleidoscopic exterior and thick black heart, quite the formidable act to follow – headline acts beware.
There is a potential for their music to experiment and dig down deeper into the occult and summon even wilder sounds. What’s most surprising of all is that I can’t think of a safer pair of hands to get us to that point than those of Death Alley. Whilst other retro bands recreate the past, these lads pay due homage to it, then give it a damn good shake. Perhaps next time, they’ll shake a little harder.
When it comes to product, the genre-hopping beast that is Enslaved rarely fail to deliver on quality. Over the years, in spite of their evolution from Norwegian extreme metal to blackened progressive rock, they have produced album after album rammed full of jaw-dropping music. In Times will be their 13th studio long-player but this time they have to cope with the effect of following their masterpiece, RIITIIR. Can they live up to the inevitable expectation?
Interestingly, nods to their vitriolic metal roots abound as do the references to Norse legend but there is something else, something more malleable to the vagaries of modern life – or, as guitarist/composer Ivor Bjørnson puts it, “the songs are the resounds of grandiose altered states and mundane tiny micro-events”. Undoubtedly, the fat has been trimmed, making it a far more focused animal than RIITIIR. It is more energetic, more aggressive and gets in and out faster. Although there are plenty of heavy beats employed, making this a drive-dominant album, it is still deeply-layered but less stylised.
Diving in, we get the dark roars and menacing anguish of “Thuriasz Dreaming”. Bursting out of the progressions come quirky, moreish repeater riffs and vocal licks. The incredible “Building With Fire” provides something a little warmer and feels even sleeker with its fast rhythm gifting it a strong battle metal quality. There are chugging gallops, piston-like double kicks and driving, rock structures. Like a wheel, the hub of the chorus with its hooked lick feeds the spokes that inch their way down exploratory passages before returning.
Further in, there are oblique cuts and segues in rhythm, tone and structure and at times you have to check to see if the track hasn’t skipped. Underneath and meshing the tracks together there are additional connective sounds which tend towards either industrial, reverential or organic. To achieve them they even went so far as to set up a mobile recording studio deep in the Norwegian woods of Bergen. Keep an ear out for the sounds of metal being worked by a crackling forge.
The ominous rumbling and scowling vocal of “One Thousand Years Of Rain” feeds into complementary clean harmonies that pick their way around the ominous lyric “their Winter is closing in”. From chanting Viking anthems we are presented with the startlingly bright and enchanting melody of “Nauthir Bleeding” with a mid-section that leaves you standing absolutely miles from where you came in. Time and again, Enslaved achieve this whilst keeping an impeccable sense of flow. The title-track offers up their division of vocal styling as verses are scowled at you, leaving the soft, rounded harmonies to pick up the chorus. There’s full use of minor keys and a crushing example of pinged top-end bass. Closing the album, the heavily-layered majesty of “Daylight” comes with choral builds and strong echoes of Devin Townsend’s epic structuring, tones and textures.
With In Times, it’s easy to imagine the total freedom that the band exercise when it comes to songwriting. It is this unrestricted vision coupled with an enviable ability to invent and explore that has made their music so affecting. Some of you may conclude that this album represents a step forward or backward from RIITIIR, but most will feel it is their prerequisite step to the side. Yes, it may be more of a grower album, but it bears the potential to be yet another Enslaved classic.
This Dutch sextet’s promo blurb describes their debut as a “72-minute long musical narration through darkness and light, hope and despair”. Within they pummel the listener with a combination of sludge-packed crush, barren post-hardcore and black metal affectations before soothing them with post-rock atmospherics. Through the use and abuse of multi-part songs, rammed with attack-and-release theatrics, gentle ebb and flow, recycling arpeggios and an array of harmonies and tones they paint a sinister picture of a world gone awry.
“Indefinite Instinct” opens to a battering gale-force wind, before ticking over into hollowed-out, reverb-loaded, gargling roars. As the bass finally kicks in the space floods with colour and the track comes alive. There are the first rumblings of emotional discord as taped newsreels are freed to paint the canvass with real anguish and torment. We get a man protesting his innocence (“I don’t know what crime I’m supposed to have committed”) as the Cult Of Luna-esque progressions build layers in the background. “Demise, demise” roars the vocalist Sierk Entius as a series of effects and radio signal scrawl bring the piece to a close.
Considering his past experience, it seems reasonable to assume that producer Jochem Jacobs (ex-Textures) may have had something to do with the repeating themes that feature and he certainly handles the eclectic and complex layering with aplomb. There are shocks in store like the sudden, aggressive attack that mark out “Duality” and “Finite Horizon”. The former, themed around the horrorshow that was the Unabomber, utilises industrial drumbeats and Cavalera-esque groove that acquiesces to reveal a sinister background thrum. It is all so reminiscent of the dark progressions that feeds the music of No Made Sense and Kongh. “Finite Horizon”s groove rapidly decays into a screwy pattern of ISIS-esque clean vocal harmonies and tones, panicked riffs and tribal rhythms. Finding something for your senses to acclimatise to does become a chore when the ground beneath your feet moves so often. It seems a shame when each constituent part alone, would be so effective.
Thankfully, the 30-minute title-track properly hunkers down to fully dissect a singular concept. Here the story of a sobbing couple torn from each other’s arms yanks at your heart – “We belong together!”. There are strong black metal overtones with continuous double-kick and Dalek-like, atonal shrieks before the body of the track moves into elegant slow motion. At 20 minutes there are trumpets and a gentle deconstruction into radio scrawl, feedback, roaring amps and whale sound. It is the equivalent of the band leaving the stage only to return to play out a warm wash until “lights out”.
Sistere is a fearless debut that strides along exuding an elegant majesty. The band’s ability to combine sounds and feed each one into their melancholic concept is impressive. All the while they dig into their disturbing box of tricks improving the flow and engendering a sense of purpose. All this proves just how in control of their own destiny they truly are. Nordvis have bagged another winner here.
Fresh from the Greek fire, these young post-metallers’ offer up their raw debut long-player, Infinite, with arguably their weakest track smack-bang in the shop window. Naturally, being the metal detectorists we are, we weren’t deterred by such a foul odour and delved deeper to discover something far more appealing within. Indeed, here lies metal that dabbles in dark places, moulding the triple-threat of doom, black and sludge together to form a subversive, gnarled ball of bellicosity.
That opening track, ‘And The Others Just Survive’, is all about the vocals and their relationship to the guitars. The whole comes at you in waves which only highlights the paucity in production values. The guitars work as a sludgy, dissonant series of chugs and twinkling top line, but the vocals aren’t quite so full. In fact, they are agonizingly short on body, leaving them sounding thin, weedy and loose in comparison to the string and drum thunder that surround them. Vocalist Upsetter has the gargled roars down pat but instead of sounding like the voice of the Devil he comes across like a bag of nails being hit against a hollow wall. Dwell ye not on this – it’s a failing that can be addressed in the studio next time around.
Where Amniac excel is in the way they rather craftily employ the vocal as an extra instrument, using it only in context. When extra power is needed, Upsetter steps up to the mic and fires out penetrative lyrics in sentences, repeating them mantra-like in clipped cycles. They aren’t restricted by genre either, sourcing several different tones and styles to complement each theme. In places like ‘Rise Like The Suns‘ they take on the dark instrumental overtones of Russian Circles, creating melancholic strands that feed into euphoric gutsy grooves that are more reminiscent of early Baroness. The hammering vehemence and frugal vocal parts of ‘The Infinite‘ play on elements of Secrets Of The Sky‘s delivery whilst ‘A System Waiting To Fail’ and ‘Our Kind The Plague’ grip like Steak Number Eight’s finest pieces. These pound out the same riffs again and again to leave a ditch. ‘A System…‘, in particular, features a notable Nirvana-esque on-beat vocal technique with a mesmeric accompanying section of rhythmic, monotone, juddering chugs that build to a hellish crescendo.
Time and again the clever song construction collapses and rebuilds itself yet somehow retains an organic flow. The music has a solid sense of direction too, one that inexorably pulls you in. It may not be the most sophisticated post-metal you’ve ever come across but it sure is exhilarating. Certainly, techniques need to be honed, production tightened and marketing savvy acquired but, even in their current form, you can sense their keen, flaming eyes igniting the path to your soul. No surprise – Amniac is, after all, just a dyslexic maniac.
Perhaps their moniker is a reference to Hindu philosophy or, less likely, the dragon-like creature in the massively multiplayer first-person shooting videogame Destiny. One thing is for certain, Ahamkara sure know how to get under your skin.
They are Newcastle-Upon-Tyne duo, multi-instrumentalist Michael Blenkarn (The Axis of Perdition, Wodensthrone) and vocalist Steven Black and for their first trick, they have produced a debut album that combines the qualities of dark ambient, drone and second-wave black metal with varying degrees of success.
Within the four tracks, all stretching their way past the ten-minute mark, Ahamkara draw strength from the classic black triad of raw production, extended sections of pummelling double-kick and resonating shrieks to impose a sense of death, dread and the afterlife upon proceedings. What marks out their music though is the glowing underbelly of warm, atmospheric layers. They use soft progressions, ethereal synths and colour the piece with thick, resonant basslines.
Opener “Midwinter’s Hymn” casts you out on the open Arctic tundra with only the caterwauling of a wraith for company. Black’s vocal comes as if from the netherworld, distant and removed from the body of the instrumentation. Eventually, the howling winds calm and the track begins to stretch out into evocative passages of guitar and synth. With all four songs fused together by the elemental sounds of nature – running water, lapping waves and rushing wind – there is an elegant, organic theme running along the spine of the music.
On the downside, there are some instances where the rosier tones bring about an odd clashing between the harsher edges and rich body. Nowhere is this more noticeable than within the strands of “On The Shores Of Defeat” where the harmony between the two begins to collapse. Happily, the visceral minor chords of “Lamentation Of A Wraith” return you to the dark side and drip-feed you a series of orchestral, even symphonic, affectations to build the concept of being within an immense space. At this point they drop their mesmeric trump card, “To Invoke The Stars Themselves”, and cut you loose to drift through the vasts of space; to meet your tormentor; to complete the journey and free your inner demons.
At its nadir The Embers Of Stars meets its inherent failings head on and at its zenith it becomes something far more conducive than the sum of its parts. Certainly, fans of Emperor, Arcturus, Anathema, Enslaved or Ulver should all be able to draw strength from the monumental aesthetics on display.
The San Francisco-based duo, Bezalith and Otrebor, have taken a side-step here from their other band, Botanist, to write an album inspired by the 1st Century BC materialist text De Rerum Natura. It translates as The Nature Of Things and is by the Roman philosophical poet Titus Lucretius Carus. Each track represents one of the six books of the text and guides us through them by pitching progressive black metal at ambient space rock.
“Aeternum” switches between a thick pummeling groove and a psychedelic dropout where a soft, echoed vocal threads its way around warm bass. These are instant shifts in tone from dark minor chords to a music with an effervescent lightness of touch. It’s a far cry from the more visceral black thrash of “Miseras” where a series of vocal passages more akin to Messianic chanting coat everything. And both these tracks are stretched further, the former by the closing sounds of morning and evening birdsong and the latter by the incessant alert of a life monitor flat-lining.
Moving on, “Discere Credas” tears out a feisty riff and follows it up with an overtly simple rhythm. Left there to run its course, the track could have tanked, but Lotus Thief pull at it and toy with its structure to create something far more interesting. It’s a pattern that continues as they throw iconic sound effects in among the gossamer-thin layers. After, the spaced-out majesty of “Lvx”, the bat-shit crazy “Discordia”, with its hissing (for all you Harry Potter fans, it’s not unlike “Parseltongue”) and its twin, the scowling façade of “Mortalis” are perhaps a step too far into chaos, but they certainly aren’t short on impact.
Albums inspired by ancient texts do carry an added air of authority and credibility about them and this vital, emotional music is no different. Fans of experimental black metal will definitely get a kick out of the elegant vocal stylings and cosmic edge here. It’s fitting that written inside the album cover, a sentence in Latin, loosely-translated, announces “If you have a garden in your library, then nothing is missing”. Rervm is your garden.
When it comes to musical know-how, you can bet your bottom dollar that Brant Bjork (Ex-Kyuss, Vista Chino) has done it, been there, and bought the t-shirt. So if he decides he wants his music to get heavy then you can sure as hell expect him to do that. Not for you, not for anyone else, but because he feels like doing it.
The result is his Black Flower Power and it comes with a no-nonsense helping of oomph. Described by the man himself, it’s music that sounds something “like the late-’60s with that heavy rock sound”. Sporting new faces in his morphing support cast, his so-called ‘Low Desert Punk Band’ (consisting of Bubba DuPree, Tony Tornay and Dave Dinsmore) certainly seem to have given him the impetus he needed to get the sound he wanted. To these ears, there’s a modern twist to it all. There’s a smidgen of Black Label Society’s southern groove, a sun-kissed sprinkling of QOTSA, mere hints at Faith No More’s panache and a big smeggy wodge of Fu Manchu’s fuzz-friendly stoner. The end result? A flower-totin’, burnt-out, buzzed-up Lenny Kravitz.
There’s catchy stompers like “We Don’t Serve Their Kind” and “Boogie Woogie On Your Brain” and then there’s big, bluesy cuts like “Buddy Time”, “Ain’t No Runnin'” and “Stokely Up Now”. The latter has a wickedly lurching cadence with a vocal style that comes at you in snatches. The whole thing sucks you in and makes you smile – particularly the addictive shout of “Hey… did you see that? That’s a dog and that’s a cat!” If those tracks don’t slay you, then the chunky blues of “That’s A Fact, Jack”, with its duelling guitars (the overdrive fuzzed groove in your right ear and the intricate lead with little licks of whammy and kicks of wah-wah in your left), should get your heart racing.
Bringing the pace down, “Hustler’s Blues” sees Brant call up a layered, Mike Patton-esque, self-harmonising vocal giving the whole album a sweet sign off. Sadly, things don’t quite end there though. There’s still the rotational, psychedelic freakout of “Where You From, Man” to endure. With an extended jammed-out running time, it’s total filler. He’s due a little self-indulgence but this just doesn’t fit with the remainder (which is why it probably lurks like the proverbial bad egg at the real album end).
There’s also very little experimentation beyond Brant’s initial concept. It could be the fact that there is so much fuzz flying around or that there’s plenty of repetition, but there is a tendency for the songs to leak into each other which is a shame. In the main though it’s a solid, worthwhile album that throws retro sounds, lives and concepts into fresh light. And it’s damn funky to boot.
“No politics. No religions” screams their biography.
Italians Sedna are obviously keen for you to focus on their musical output alone and they needn’t worry. At times abrasive and antagonistic, at others soul-sapping and desolate, their self-titled debut album is going to grab your attention. In fact, its nothing short of cathartic. By pumping out exploratory, hardcore-tinged doom/sludge accented by a landslide of drums and throat-ripping screams, their music demands of its listeners.
Their pitch black tone draws influence from inventive monsters like Amen Ra, Wolves In The Throne Room and Year Of No Light, but there is also a keen, morbidly fascinating edge similar to that explored by post-‘core fiends like The Elijah and Amia Venera Landscape. Punishing initially then ebbing into a sequence of sanguine oscillations around 13 minutes, “Sons Of The Ocean” drinks deep upon these influences creating an angular construction of heart-wrenching ebb and flow, whilst “Sons Of Isolation” has an achingly slow build – although its slightly tiresome, it does put one in mind of Russian Circles’ last album, so adds some spice to the mix.
“Life / Ritual”, with bone chimes jangling and tortured chants circling in bouncing echoes around temple walls, disturbs on a whole new level. Somewhere within this band lies a deep rage and here you can feel it cracking through the crust as the vocalists combine to great effect. Then, with a final crackling flourish full of latent feedback, “Sons Of The Ancients” plucks at fresh wounds by cycling two chords until the roars of vocalist/guitarist Nil bring us raging round to an invasive sequence of powerful chugging.
There’s a fascinating range of styles at play here and it marks an enjoyable initial foray. Initially bruising, the impact of it becomes less of an issue with further listens. The so-called “sphere of deep hope” that they wanted to convey within their music is well hidden here, but I certainly felt their passion and it sparked a wide range of emotions ranging from anger to misery.
