fires in the distance — Blog - Crushtor.net

As a man, I have to know my limitations. Dirty Harry Callahan may have shot first and asked questions later, but in the heat of the moment knowing when to surrender ranks chief among one’s mental inventory for maintaining sanity.

Just like when a girlfriend says she’s leaving, a boss telling you’re let go, or you’re looking down at the shattered remains of your favourite mug, we’re faced with a near existential choice. At least for me, a fire spreads through my body, bracing itself for the inevitable. It is like ants crawling all over me, spitting lava. This would be my breaking point, my Room 101. Am I ready to fight the invincible?

Counter-attack is impossible. All salvos launched, all fighters scrambled, no reserves left. It’s done. Goodbye, sayonara, auf wiedersehen, farewell.

I can feel defeated, sure. Or I can choose to let it go. Once I accept and make peace that what has left will never return, it feels like I have emerged from an ocean’s tempest and rounded a patch of calm upon a warm salty bay. You can do everything right and still lose. That’s fine.

When I take to situations like this, I read Marcus Aurelius Meditations: “Here is a rule to remember, when anything tempts you to feel bitter: not ‘This is misfortune,’ but ‘To bear this worthily is good fortune.’”

What’s this got to do with music? Fuck all. Then again, it’s my blog and not yours. Here’s what was stuck in my car for the last month and a bit:

Fires In The Distance - Air Not Meant For Us

I will never forget getting Above The Weeping World by Insomnium in the mail. It was a steal considering the heinous US dollar to Aussie conversion rate in 2005, and it was all thanks to The End Records mailorder. I remember unsleeving the jewel case, swinging it open, popping the disc in my cheap as shit Sanyo all-in-one boombox and slipping beefy Sony headphones over my head. It was full of melancholy, fire, and fantastic tones that drew one into their plaintive world of sorrow. It was a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on, but knew was incredible. Air Not Meant For Us brought that feeling of awe back to me once more.

Though hailing from the United States, there’s that pensive Scandinavian existentialism that can’t be shaken off. I mean, Agalloch were from the US and never suffered for it. To call this European or American is a disservice to just how haunting and beautiful it is. It does feel crushing, like a mighty weight pressing into one’s body such is the density of their riffs. Harbingers exemplifies the rapture and searing heat of their passion, accompanied by resplendent piano lines that even displace guitars at times. Bass is thick and resonant, often taking the lead when impacting the listener. As a chorus of angels circle from on high, one has to shake themselves back into the present such is the spell it casts over us. “I will never see daylight,” growler Craig Brettsprecher intones. “But I’ve seen enough!” Chills. This is just the first track, mind; each one is crafted with the same patience a sculptor has with his marble. Wisdom of the Falling Leaves uses rippling grand piano to establish motif as guitars come steamrolling in, leaden with bass tones that seems to go missing in melodeath.

They can do grandiose and sweeping Cinemascope metal (Crumbling Pillars of a Tranquil Mind) and churning, doom-style riffery and breathtaking leadwork (Adrift, Beneath the Listless Waves) just as well, which is inconcievable to me. Talking about Agalloch, Psalm of the Merciless gathers up those bleak emotions and casts them into molten steel, undercut by fluttering piano and solo guitar that rivals the virtuosos for hire. The rising tension and release of Idiopathic Despair is what makes death metal - or extreme metal - as a genre so compelling for misfits like us. Haunted by neo-baroqueisms that never veer into Children of Bodom silliness but more William Blake-ish introspection, Idiopathic Despair’s trailing off into the distance is the impetus for pushing play on the disc all over again. I mean, once is not enough and twice is a good start. Simply superb.

Serpent of Old - Ensemble Under The Dark Sun

Sometimes, the artwork on the front of an album matches the music found within. Turkey’s Serpent of Old is that kind of atmospheric death metal that stares down upon you like malevolent, merciless Emperor. There is pity in his face but none in his heart. His armies will crush, scorch, and destroy without feeling. It’s beyond duty, beyond fervour. Tempetuous and writhing guitars lance through this disc, putting you under its evil trance, touching the dark shadows of your heart. I wish I was joking; this evokes some pretty grim visions inside (but of course, I love every minute.)

Turmoil that churns throughout forty-two minutes is otherworldly, especially when they cross fields of flame to trudge through the steppes of doom, such is the ten-minute epic The Fall. Unsaturated Hunger and Esoteric Lust verges on the inquisitorial style of black metal, nightmarish and destructive without relent. Idiosyncrasy touches on the progged up Atheist or Gorguts style of death metal, gnarled timing and tumbling riffs crashing and exploding off one another. It’s not a disc for the feint of heart, but by Satan’s pitchfork is it compelling.

Wytch Hazel - IV: Sacrament

In the current age of music, nothing is “long awaited.” That’s because we’re stuffing our earholes with more content we could ever listen to in a lifetime every three weeks or so. English Jesus and linen robe aficionados Wytch Hazel had a cross to bear (boooooo) trying to follow up III: Pentecost record, one of the best retro-flavoured “metal” releases insofar it wasn’t complete wank and suck at the same time. Every arsehole under the sun will make out that it’s Thin Lizzy meets Wishbone Ash, which is more accurate than a Balkan baba telling you “that xena, she no goot for you” within three seconds of meeting her tanned, bottle blonde, horoscope-reading ass.

Single Angel of Light could be titled The Boys are Back In Town (and going to straight to Church) yet no one will dare say it’s a rip-off. Because it really isn’t. Just like Time and Doubt mash up Acca Dacca and Montrose, twinning and winning every guitar competition circa 1973. Organs blare as if Ken Hensley (Uriah Heep) himself possessed Deliver Us, a tambourine-shaking hippie fest, lilted by God-praising choruses and overlapped reverb-drenched guitars. Endless Battle might refer to who can do the best Blue Oyster Cult impression (versus Ghost, of course) and the 12-string acoustic driven Future is Gold will have burned out Fleetwood Mac wine uncles dancing in their chairs, regretting their life choices all over again. It’s an inspired and incredible album, though it falls just short of its immediate predecessor. That said, I’ll take this 70s metal throwback every day of the week and twice on Sunday (after mass, of course.)

Vanum - Ageless Fire

My bones ache knowing that in a couple of short weeks, 2019 will be five years away from us. It may as well be 20. New York’s Vanum play black metal, though it’s from the salt-of-the-earth spiritual kind, owing much the natural haunting moments of the world around us. I mean, doesn’t it freak you out that we walk atop the firmament from which we came and where we shall go? Some shit like that. Their sprawling soundscapes slot into that Primordial or Agalloch-like vein, especially on opening instrumental War and the title track. Themes build upon melodies toying with the “Viking” style of Bathory or Windir in Jaws of Rapture, as vocalist M. Rekevics seems to cry havoc down a crack-den hallway. Eternity is where the real majesty kicks in barreling down with a tinge of haughty pomp, like a medieval king reviewing his charges on horseback. Likewise in the Shakepearean Under the Banner of Death where our doomed souls charge unto the breach. It’s all elegantly put together and fans of earthy, epic black metal will be enthralled by the ear-cinematics Vanum seem to conjure up in this platter.

Creeping Death - Boundless Domain

If you are trying to reinvent old school death metal - don’t! Because we love that shit. The latest effort from these Dallas, TX natives injects enough variation into the OSDM “formula” cribbing bits of Bolt Thrower, Obituary, or even the proto-melodeath bands like Edge of Sanity or Dismember into a fresh and bloodthirsty monster. Opener and title track is a sampler for what’s to come as heavy languid grooves and high velocity slashes of guitar dominate before rolling out like hunter-killers into Intestinal Wrap, a homage to the gory 80s featuring none other than neck-beef enthusiast Corpsegrinder Fisher (Cannibal Corpse.) Creators Turned Into Prey is quintessential neck-snapper epic death metal, while tracks like Remants of the Old Gods touch on the experimentation of Death. It’s meat and potatoes delivered by Amazon and nutritionally balanced for modern lifestyles - but I double dare you not to join the mosh when a few of these baddies blare through the PA.

I keep missing one but I don’t know why? Weird.