Somewhere there exists a Metal Valhalla, an otherworldly paradise where all of the head-banging Vikings, beer-swilling Satanists, fist-pumping Klingons and face-painted Odinists are slam-dancing under the dark crimson moonlight to the pure amplified glory of the heaviest sounds in the Universe. For all we know, this Guitar Nirvana might be completely out of reach of mere mortals, at least in this lifetime, but that doesn't stop people from trying time and again to invoke it right here on Earth.
For the past two decades, as American and British metal bands have crept uncomfortably towards soulless rap-metal, middle-of-the-road alt-rock and hair-metal parody, Norway's legion of Black, Neo-Black and Blacker-Than-Thou Metal bands have gradually asserted themselves as the most extreme, experimental and creative force still untainted by irony and trendspotting. The scene made headlines in 1993 when Count Grishnackh of Burzum burned down a few churches then murdered his former Mayhem bandmate Euronymous, in a bid to prove that his virulently radical and amoral views were more than just a stylistic pose. Since the recent decline of Mayhem and Emporer, the Scandinavian scene's acknowledged godfathers, Dimmu Borgir have taken the gilded Viking helmet by the horns, releasing several masterful albums of megalithic death-rock that stand up to the best heavy classics of the past.
Death Cult Armageddon is their strongest effort to date, a Dionysian explosion that comes on like a nuclear assault and relentlessly pummels forward on its own twisted momentum. Dimmu Borgir are inspired by three demonic familiars known as Speed, Power and Majesty. Speed comes in the form of the primal, high-speed drumming of Nicholas Barker and the savage technical mastery of guitarists Silenoz and Galder. Power manifests in the growls, groans and operatic screams of vocalists Shagrath and Vortex. Majesty is provided by the symphonic keyboards of Mustis, who wields the entire Prague Philharmonic Orchestra to provide the final Wagnerian piece of the puzzle. The production on Death Cult Armageddon is precise and deadly, achieving an impressive balance between the symphonic backdrops and the vicious bombast of the band.
The album is filled with moments of dark orchestral intrigue, punching up the action. Mustis has clearly been influenced by the gothic symphonic film scores of Danny Elfman, as well as John Williams' space fanfares for Star Wars. "Progenies of the Great Apocalypse" builds a twisted tower of epic Hollywood intensity, quickly exploding into a monolith of speed-damaged brutality. Shagrath's growling vocals are phased and mutated, joined on two tracks by the powerful gut-wrenching of Abbath Doom Occulta of Immortal. Yes, it's overwrought, and unquestionably goofy, but it's also an amazingly entertaining listen. I've never heard another band that puts quite so much visceral energy into scaring the hell out of their audience while simultaneously blowing out their eardrums.
There's not a dud among the 11 tracks on Death Cult Armageddon, but the album certainly builds up to the dual orgiastic climaxes of the two lengthy final tracks — "Unorthodox Manifesto" and "Heavenly Perverse" — where soaring symphonic swells are unashamedly wielded to devastating effect. The songs willfully change tempo and direction, dipping into industrial rhythms, gothic drama and Slayer-style debauchery, pausing every now and then to reinforce their own violent virtuosity. This is the Close to the Edge of the Black Metal genre; revelatory progressive metal for a post-apocalyptic millennium.
Like the 23Five label's recent success, Variable Resistance: Ten Hours of Sound from Australia, this new two-disc compilation from Preservation seeks to document a burgeoning sound art/experimental electronic scene among Australian musicians. "Scene," however, may be inappropriate given the variety available here. Motion: Movement in Australian Sound does distinguish itself by veering (slightly) away from headier sound art pieces into a more repeated-listener-friendly zone.Preservation
This is understandable given the label's undistinguished focus, with previous releases including Sun's dazzling, though unabashedly pop debut. The same understated beauty Oren Ambarchi and Chris Townend achieved on that record is present throughout Motion, suggesting there is truly something in Australian water that is sorely missed across the sea. The tensest, busiest tracks here exude a calm that uniquely connects them, digital majority included, to the pastoral. Not the nostalgic, fairytale pastoral championed frequently by European musicians?his sounds of the rural, the sprawling, the Australian pastoral. Inventive and satisfying combinations of organic/primitive sounds with austere glitch landscaping help to create the unique and emotive music so prevalent here. Guitars dominate several tracks, predictably unrecognizable in Oren Ambarchi's weightless contribution, while chiming a struggling joy across Chris Smith's fragile "Plates Shift." A nice surprise on the first disc is Ray Diode's cleverly-titled "Even Diodes Get the Blues," a subtle composition of humming drones, layered hiss, and muffled piano, faded in on a bed of field recordings and clicking static as if wafting in on a phantom frequency. Motion'ssecond disc is the real prize, beginning with Alan Lamb's comatose "Fragment of the Outback," which leads into a beautiful new track from Mush recording artist Clue to Kalo. His "Clock Taps its Face" is simple, skeletal pop, half-spoken vocals over looped piano that succeeds in the kind of haphazard, back porch brilliance that so often falls flat. Laptop/turntable noisemakers GCTTCATT also contribute what sounds like moment of chance-melodicism, a nicely digestible piece composed primarily of one swooning piece of feedback. Scott Horscroft's "Eleven Guitars" is one of the treasures of this second disc, also one of the only tracks to deal, in more explicit fashion, with the comp's vague theme, that each track must explore ideas of motion through sound. "Eleven Guitars" follows minimal, rapid-fire guitar loops as they evolve glacially over the song's six minutes. The tension between the swift, skating motion of the loops themselves, and the miniature progression of the whole, is as peaceful as it is stimulating. The disc's final triumph is an extended closer from Sigma Editions/Tonschacht artist Minit, a patchwork of synth-laced drones and machine hum, understated through a minimalism of means, but immense in its effected catharsis. New listeners should find many agreeable discoveries in Motion, most importantly that of Australian sound itself, a movement that is only getting stronger.
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