[Reviewed by Iaha Crax]
If one can leave behind all they have been acquainted with and truly submerge unprejudiced in the recesses of the mind guided only by Vision, what then will take form? A world away from known space and time, incited solely by a will for self-extinction and an openness to receive in full deployment the colors of the Void from which Existence takes shape… So we may enter the indefinite and shrunk with horror territory painted here from the first brush of crushing sounds, “Hic Est Enim Calix Sanguinis Mei”. A chaos of globular explosions blowing away in salacious specters that deprived spirit of innocuous flesh.
With what unreserved suspicion do we try to gather a formula for the next musical ablation… Starting with doom-laden coprophagic dances (reminiscent of Unearthly Trance), sweetly dramatized by trombone scores and decrepit church piano, this procession seems to be moved by our sense of unstoppable fear caused by its approaching. It is called “Human Skin For The Messengers Robe”, perhaps an Aztec rites musical tautology, when the priest received a human skin to dress himself for the meeting with the god.
A sublime debut of trumpets, drastic percussion, gentle guitars and echoed ethereal voices is increased by a rapid succession of absolutely demented and chaotic noise/ black metal, raped by a violin stringed sequence perversity. We hear “Urine Soaked Neophytes”, but is this actually a savage attack upon our already abused mind. Here the sound amalgam is so frenzied that it reaches an evanescent sense of irregularity, perhaps envisioned in turbulent dreams that are refracted to any analogy. Sometimes the artist’s hissing vocals are the only part keeping us earthbound. A silvery white veils the eyes from drops of blood dripping more and more virulent against an image of cosmic decay – if the cosmos can decay… This elemental black apocalyptic noise is indistinguishable when garmented into a cacophony of percussion and ambient choruses ending in Nothing.
Lovers of sleep and living somnambulists, necrophiliac mistresses or those sempiternal dwellers in coffins are called to witness their liturgy. And they will be again awakened by the voice of “Tod, Wo Ist Dein Licht”, that hovers its shredded, horrible incantation upon their Couch of Death. The display of atrocious sounds abounds in bestiality, not as a mere metaphor, but with the sadism and abjection of a human-animal intercourse bereft of any mercy. This perverse palette seeks relief through a following doom andantino, as if some invisible arms would try to sooth us in the aftermath of the horror. The fake compassion is accompanied by a kind irony, the light of death, suggested by the jazzy inspired finale.
Look down now on the remains of what gods once were, and see yourself in the image man once created. “Fallen Deities Bathing In Gall” deludes with its aphoristic ambient debut and rapidly gets a feverish tone. Drums strikes into the listener’s head like immense hammers and hissing frequencies encircle us in barbed wire. The voices here are more diverse in the same demonic attitude and the whole piece is mainly a demented crude apostrophe around paranoia.
“Bonedust On Dead Genitals” sings lulling cadences made of slow funeral noise drone/ doom in intricate ambiances. It’s a track that breeds impotency and brings to the surface castration complexes which surely may end in a feeling of total despondency. So have some tough alcohol and smash your head against the wall in between the sobs if you want to stay clear-minded.
I sense a mania of repetition of the same ambient motif, applied to every combination of sounds, an abused organ tone. On “The Storming Heavens As A Father To All Broken Bodies”, it is applied on black metal drumming enforced with animal vocals and other vexed sounds. The Jehova, god of terror and armies, rages in irrational cruelty among his servants leaving nothing but broken bodies.
“Per Flagellum Sanguemque, Tenebras Veneramus” is the final offering from this immense Vision. The piece moves slowly in ceremonial cadence framed in shredded hints of threatening sonorities. It seems to take form from its annoying repetition and is splinted by a female recitation, ending in an incongruously angelic chorus.
I entered a pit of Death and Destruction where everything disturbs and nothing can appeal exhaustively. A musical cinematic vision built on heavy percussion and frenzied electronics meant to possess the receiver and transpose him in the inner temple of the artist, where darkness is worshiped with blood and whip.