Second Look: In Flames - A Sense of Purpose

Nuclear Blast Records (2008)

I have no idea why, being the stupid fucking purist I am for YE OLDE melodic death metal (DARK TRANQUILLITY FOREVER), A Sense of Purpose gets way more play time than something from, fuck, I dunno, Omnium Gatherum or Darkane from the same period. The 2008ish period was melodeath in its popularity death throes, too.

Up came the Ameri-thrash renaissance as Testament re-invigorated the withered scene with The Formation of Damnation (Skolnick returns!). Knotty djenty stuff was beginning to take hold around the collective snapped necks of metalheads worldwide - the release of Gojira’s The Way of All Flesh was heralded as a genre triumph, as was the first new material from progmaster generals Cynic since 1993’s landmark Focus album. So what gives?

Contemporary reviews picked up on the fact that metalcore is by and large derived from melodic death metal. Pitchfork (remember them?) in their haughty analysis actually made a bit of sense for once:

Though limited to standard minor tonalities, [In Flames] riffs and harmonies were exuberant and sometimes epic. Imitators quickly arose; the guitar harmonies of today's metalcore and emo owe much to In Flames.

No argument there. In Flames, if you had tape trading friends or cable modems worth a damn in the early 2000s, were the gateway drug into Killswitch Engage, Chimaira, Shadows Fall,

The Mirror’s Truth opens with a downtuned, strident riff - no licks to be heard in this bit, but you will notice machine drums. Thirty seconds in, a melodic break crashes through the wall. Perhaps this is our mama’s In Flames after all? Pummelling with melody, not rhythm, is the usual In Flames m.o. Just don’t tell the Americans.

The visuals in the music video are 100% American nu-metal analogue horror: misshapen dolls, pulsing, blood red colour grading, scratchy VHS glitches, and closeups of monitors with closeups of the band. In the visual realm, one does wonder who this was pitched at, considering the MTV TRL era is at least five years dead at this point.

Disconnected is definitely ya mama’s In Flames, especially in their usual double-clip form. Far from the romantic nihilism of Niklas Sundin’s lyrics (ex-Dark Tranquillity, Mitochondrial Sun, Laethora) on The Jester Race or Whoracle, the don’t bore us chorus has Anders Fridén lamenting “Oh, I feel like shit / but at least I feel something.” Profound. An acoustic-introed Sleepless Again, hinting at Clayman era riffage backed up by clean sawtooth synth. It even features a (gasp!) breakdown of sorts, which lasts all of three seconds. For some, that is an eternity.

Alias stomps in like it owns the place, synth “oohs” permeating languid, minor key chugging and melodic guitar lines. The chorus is stadium-sized and purpose built. Wave your hands in time and you’ll suddenly understand who (and what) it’s for. As Anders climbs to a crescendo at the peak of his pimply emotions, you can almost envisage him ripping open his trademark olive-drab army shirt to reveal his bare Swedish chest, not unlike ex-Thy Art Is Murder frontman CJ McMahon did for shits and giggles that one time.

On closer inspection, the rest of the album is fairly unremarkable. I’m The Highway is Disconnected in a different key (for the most part) and Delight and Angers a subtle rework of The Mirror’s Truth. Then again, who cares. It’s like episodes of Star Trek: Voyager on a rainy day - it’s not exactly mind food but it sure does feel good. This may have been intentional, according to a contemporary interview with then bassist Peter Iwers:

Jesper [Stromblad, guitars] and Bjorn [Gelotte, guitars], they come up with all the riffs, and then they show it to the rest of us and then we arrange most of it together. Then me and Dan [Svensson, drums] will come up with our own stuff. And Anders does –- when the music’s done, he does all his lyrics and vocal lines on top of that. And then we sit down — this time we did the pre-production in our own studio. And then we listen to the songs, and we may swap around, like the verse could be a chorus, because it’s just so good, we swap around the arrangement. Rather than before when everyone rehearsed and tried different ideas. We record the ideas, listen to it, swap around, and then record it again.

It would seem that In Flames during the Reroute era, instead of crafting songs from beginning to end instead embraced the non-linear digital present: songs are produced rather than written, chopped and changed, refined and polished. This is exactly what they didn’t want to make obvious on Sense, as Anders told Metal Obsession:

We were really trying to get a real animal feeling for it, you record on a digital media, but you want a bass drum to sound like a bass drum, and a snare to sound like a snare. And we worked really hard on the that part, with the individual sounds, wanting everything to feel alive and warm, I definitely hear that when I listen to the album, and I hope others do too.. a nice warm analogue feel to it.

Listening to the album on high-end equipment, he has a point. Compared to previous squeaky-clean noise floor records, Sense sounds a little grittier, less hollow. They stuck with producer Daniel Bergstrand for the third time running, too. He’s one of the crowning architects of the latter-day melodeath sound along with say, Fredrik Nordstrom or Andy Sneap. Bergstrand is also responsible for the sample-based “drumkit from hell” which rears its quantised head from time to time (for sure in the awful EDM remix of Alias.) It isn’t all Oreo-creme filler, though.

The Chosen Pessimist, their eight-minute emotional epic touching on the introspection of say, Katatonia or Daylight Dies but lands somewhere in Pantera territory (Anders does the shirt ripper crescendo thing, again) is such an audacious and indulgent experiment they never ever tried it since. Soilwork comes to mind in balls-to-the-wall thrasher Sober and Irrelevant, and their closer March to The Shore is a fitting coda; huge on gang vocals, riffs fit for circle pits, and solos crafted exclusively for standing at lips of stages as wind machines blow guitarist’s hair back. It’s a truly satisfying end. But for who?

Sputnik Music spake thus:

A Sense of Purpose is a step in the right direction for sure. In Flames managed to pull themselves out of the hole they put themselves into with their last two albums and are ready to progress onward musically.

As much as ye olde schoole love to shit on Reroute to Remain and Soundtrack to Your Escape, (and perhaps Come Clarity) they did still stick to a distinct In Flames identity. An identity muddied by production techniques best suited for disposable pop records and chart-climbers. As rocker and scholar Danko Jones once said, “every band wants to be the best band in the world” and what that means for each band is open to interpretation.

A Sense of Purpose isn’t a genre classic or even a classic for the band; but it is listenable, accessible, and comforting. In Flames by this point had nothing left to prove as Anders said at the time:

We are happy with the album, and really proud of it, like all the other albums, and as long as we keep feeling that, and they work out live, then it makes my day.

According to Lorna Shore’s Will Ramos, it changed his life. If it makes our day once in a while, who are we to judge?

The Six Stacker - Bleak House

I live in Melbourne. Many Melburnians have lived here almost all their lives. None of us are used to the weather. Poking your head outside to bask in a sunny morning full of promise and dreams will be quickly dashed as you jump back inside. Grey clouds gather in an instant and you’ll be soaked in misery before you can even make the two or three steps to your car. A “Melburnian weather contingency starter pack” contains an overcoat, umbrella, sunscreen, and a Twitter account (to bitch about the unpredictability of the weather, which we all knew was a thing.) Fuck me, it’s spring already. I just saw Cattle Decapitation and the venue stunk of smug veganism and flop sweat. Cos it was sold out and humid at the Croxton. Anyway, here’s what I’ve been listening to:


Sacred Outcry - Towers of Gold

No Remorse Records (2023)

A GREEK power metal band? Surely not. Sacred Outcry formed in 1998 and in true Greeka no orris boss fashion, took 22 years to release their first record Damned for All Time. A swift two years later we have their follow-up Towers of Gold. This is a BIG DEAL in power metal since it’s their first with ex-Lost Horizon and ex-Crystal Eyes vocalist Daniel Heiman, which is a very good nutcrunchy thing. When their press packet gushes about a “meeting of golden age of the 90s and 00s power metal with the 80s American scene” they mean Rhapsody or Hammerfall mixed with, well, I’m not entirely sure. First (proper) track is all stallion gallop Hammerfall, every twelfth bar worth of vocals punctuated with an off-the-chart high note. Next track The Voyage does feel more American, thrashier in parts owing much to Jag Panzer and those huge gang choruses.

When I had this blaring through my car, I didn’t really pay much attention to it. Listening back, the neo-classical mist and cape fantasy Symphony of the Night (no Belmonts were harmed in the making) caught my ear more often than not. Semi-demi trilogy The Sweet Wine of Betrayal, The City of Stone and 15-minute guitar heroes’ journey Towers of Gold are the real meat of the album. Riding like the wind then kneeling in supplication as piano gently caresses Heiman’s face like the lace-gloved hand of a lost lover (or some shit) Towers of Gold comes damn close to matching the epic-ness of Helloween, Heiman doing his best approximation of Michael Kiske (who else) and just about pulling it off. It doesn’t make the previous 40 or so minutes dead weight, but the quality in the finale show tears strips of what came before. Worth the price of admission? I don’t know, do I fire up a CD for one song?


Faceless Burial - Speciation

Dark Descent Records (2020)

Spending $15 on what could have been rent or food after their set at Exhumed a couple of months ago I consider the risk of homelessness or starvation worth it. When fellow Hysteria traveller Tom MF Hersey wondered (out loud) why “Facey B isn’t as big as Parkway” I too pondered this, also. Opener Worship is everything good about technical death metal - not too showy and just the right amount of sugary guitar-lead goodness, fizzing our brains with excitement.

It’s total Chuck Schuldiner worship, though they haven’t cribbed his entire Sound of Perseverance (that was a pun), just the spirit of it. Overall, it has that ripper taste of late 90s “what if we did this”-ness to it. The same questions Atheist, Gorguts or Necrophagist would ask. Riff after riff they throw out like ninja stars, always spiking smack dab in the middle of someone’s eye, gushing fountains of blood and guts and piss and shit everywhere (all good things.) Barely 40 minutes long, it’s perfect as is. Every time you spin it, you discover something you missed the last time around.


My Dying Bride - The Light at the End of The World

Peaceville Records (1999)

After a near-disastrous flirtation with sounds ranging from blissed out Stone Roses and electronics ala Depeche Mode (though it didn’t hurt Paradise Lost any) on their previous album, the emperors of gloom roar back to re-conquer the lost territory of death-doom. Not that anyone was really posing a challenge. Not PL, not even Anathema at this point. Even so, using the Deep Space Nine font instead of chunky serifs seemed to upset a whole lot of people.

When the band chugs towards a wall of sorrowful violin and stops for Aaron Stainthorpe’s plaintive lamentations, you know shit is back and back in a big way. The Light at the End of the World hears the band crush up withered Nick Caves and Tom Waitses and snort them wholesale. She Is The Dark moves at lightning speed compared to most of their fare, and Stainthorpe’s bloodthirsty snarl rams home the anger that belies depression and grief. High drama and romanticism ensues in The Night He Died, sort of like Type O Negative dressed in blood-stained Edwardian garb; fan favourite The Fever Sea capturing a furious ocean that threatens to turn even the most steel-hearted of men insane. They do squarely focus in on death-doom’s primeval metallic nature, especially in hard-edged rocker (by their standards) Into the Lake of Ghosts, which they would expand on in later releases (especially on A Line of Deathless Kings and the albums after.) Their talent lies in creating a faultless, multifaceted funereal sound that retains classic metal elements: soaring leads and headbang-worthy passages. Like my old friend Jan used to say (often to bands, as they were playing) “the riffs are good.” Enough said.


Cattle Decapitation - Terrasite

Metal Blade Records (2023)

At Cattle Decap’s show with Fallujah (The Croxton, 17 September), our Malthusian panic merchants played mostly cuts from this and previous belter Death Atlas and everyone was pretty happy about it. That said, Terrasite is brimming with everything that makes death metal so attractive to us depraved weirdos in the first place: rib-crushing sub-bass, machine-gun double-kicks, riffs coming down like mechanised cavalry, and mastery of the brain-melter leadbreak. That otherworldly Fear Factory style robo-vox Travis Ryan does is also a big plus. It’s odd to place “songwriting” and “death metal” in the same sentence, since DA RIFF is the most important element of any extreme metal combo worth their (ethically sourced) salt. Scourge of the Offspring is chained to a circular arse-kicking machine, landing blows at such frenetic speed it might make Archspire pause to catch their breath. Cattle Decap are mighty talented practitioners of the arcane death metal art. To follow up a genre classic with something so close it can smell its decaying innards is nothing short of phenomenal. Recommended.


Unto Others - Mana

Eisenwald (2019)

Sometimes bands emerge with one core purpose: to be as kickass as possible and not give a fuck what anyone thinks. Unto Others (originally Idle Hands) is one such band. Yeah, we like Iron Maiden, yeah we like Sisters of Mercy, what are you going to do about it? Well, rock the fuck out to it, because it’s fucking awesome. You wanna Goth dance like its the 80s, go for your fucking life on industrial banger Nightfall, punctuated by slacker harmonies and lead breaks brighter than disco ball reflections off tuning pegs. If these guys released Jackie during the Cure’s heyday, they would have been on double-bills with them within a month of release. Gabriel Franco’s devil may care baritone works well whether it’s about hitting the open road (Cosmic Overdrive) or blurring himself into drug-fucked Accept-style oblivion (Give Me To The Night) or just kinda taking the Jim Steinman piss because it’s awesome (Dragon, Why Do You Cry?) A Single Solemn Rose is their ultimate fuck you to glam rock, Franco letting his voice soar above plaintive arpeggiated guitar. You know what anguish really feels like, Jon? Nikki? Axl? Fuck off.

Their Type O Negative meets Judas Priest schtick defies expectations every time you spin this one up - it exists almost despite itself and in saying that, it makes the entire disc nigh on perfect.


I forgot the sixth record. I may not have had one. Opps!