Though black and doom metal both can greatly benefit from compositions that are quite freeform in nature—swirling, repetitive storms of smothering darkness (see Yodh, Antelux)—they can also, like most musical styles, be bolstered by some excellent, concise songwriting. I don’t use “concise” here in the way I typically do to refer to the lengthy atmospheric excursions spread across Naga’s third studio album Void Cult Rising. These are not condensed microcosms of horror and violence; the six tracks take up plenty of space with their massive, elephantine grooves, building anticipation both within the riffs themselves by alternating low and high chords and over the course of the song via some excellent dynamic control. I call them “concise,” however, because nothing feels longer than it needs to be. The grimly titled opener “Only a God Can’t Save Us” is in the upper percentile of tracks in terms of length but comes across as an expertly paced tone-setter, and the full breadth of Naga’s structural prowess is demonstrated on “Melete” where a plodding jam falls into quiet repose before culminating in a spectacularly crushing climax. Though the lumbering, deliberate pace is maintained throughout, even when desperate blast beats claw their way through the murk, an abundance of rhythmic variation and frequent appearance of psychedelic elements make Void Cult Rising a gripping and engaging entry in the 2019 metal canon.
Of all the strange music I cover on this site, people I know both in person and online seem to be the most intrigued, or occasionally baffled, by my interest in wall noise. Why this is the case is obvious: they are confused and perturbed by the idea of music that is intended to not only be harsh (in the traditional sense at least) but also largely the same throughout its duration. I default to an explanation I’ve probably brought up a dozen times here, where I compare a wall track to an abstract visual art piece that never physically changes yet nonetheless yields greater depth and emotional resonance the longer it is looked at. But there’s another dimension to wall noise that this analogy doesn’t accommodate: though there’s nothing preventing listeners from prematurely ending their observance of a particular track, but there is certainly significance in the fact that the artist chooses a specific time frame for the consumption of their creation. Thus, the duration of a wall is as much an quality to be considered as what it actually sounds like.
A release as visceral as Elettronica Ultras’ Opposta Fazione doesn’t necessarily require such a pedantic preamble, but the acknowledgment of the importance of length allows me to articulate part of the reason I enjoy this tape so much: it’s short. The new artist, whose only other release (that I can find) is last April’s Oltre Tutto e Tutti CDr, presents two slabs of raucous, smoldering harsh noise across the C13, and true to such brevity the sound is intense and punishing. Restricting these incendiary blasts of crunch and crackle to six and a half minutes each not only makes them digestible but also imbues the music itself with a powerful immediacy, a quality that makes Opposta Fazione stand out from other harsh releases that place more emphasis on the extended reverie that such deafening stagnancy can induce.
When it comes to speech-related elements in music, it’s almost easier, or at least less daunting to work with the nonsense ranting, abstract utterance, and rhythmic repetition of sound poetry or text-sound rather than straightforward spoken word. As listeners we’re trained to resist transparency; nothing grates at the hear more than painfully unsubtle lyrics or any other elements that are too direct to be at all effective. Mark Groves’ murky mutterings that comprise much of his contributions to Red Wine and Sugar (which also features sound artist Samaan Fieck) are lucid and intelligible, but it’s less about what he’s saying than the things his words evoke, the way they sound within the soundscapes the duo craft, the deliberate pacing and placement of certain statements. Lake / Wildflower doesn’t even reach 20 minutes but its presence is one of spindly, spidery sprawl, sketching out strange and surreal environments through the use of woozy electronics, sparse recordings, and the pregnant spaces between Groves’ ramblings. The atmosphere that seeps into both pieces is dark and uncertain, but it doesn’t draw from the moth-eaten scuzz of Lindus or the hiss-filled suspense of Letters to Friends of the Late Darcy O’Meara, instead occupying a space much more cold and synthetic. The subversive proceedings aren’t without warmth, however; it just requires a bit of digging to find it. I’d suggest starting your search amidst the ringing negative space near the halfway point of “Lake” or the tactile ennui that rustles itself into existence once “Wildflower” begins—both instances are moments that seem grey and sterile at first, but focus on them long enough and small slivers of light shine through.
“Should I have just kept my mouth shut? The ambiguity is… distressing.”
Barcelona-based sound artist Daphne Xanthopoulou finds beauty not only in the mundane sounds of our everyday lives, footsteps and chimes and ringing telephones captured with wildly varying fidelity, but also in the intense, noisy glitch-scapes she coaxes from extensive processing of those recordings, presenting two dimensions of reality simultaneously—though moments on To Be Brave that feel like “reality” are quite sparse. Unlike September’s Jaguar 100%, the heavily altered auditory acrobatics of Xanthopoulou’s text-sound ranting is at least not perceptible on this new release, and instead the buzzing digital abstractions are woven throughout ennui-vignettes, the two often coexisting as on “New Moon” where the alien pulses of the former lurk beneath the meditative object percussion of the latter or on the blasting opener “Warm Milk” for which the opposite is the case. This coexistence occurs with differing amounts of unease, often undergoing a drastic change within a single track, as is the case with both of the aforementioned tracks; “Warm Milk” evolves from harsh to hypnotic, “New Moon” from soothing to sinister (the wet smacking noises used near the end really could be some heavily processed mouth sounds, I honestly have no idea). The stretch of cryptically numbered miniatures in the second half of the album, preceded by the equally diminutive title track, embark into deeply physical sound-object arrangements that further blur the divide between the thumps and bumps of reality and the electrical storm hanging above. I’d be lying if I said To Be Brave wasn’t intense, but it’s so concise and well put-together that the more discordant elements are digestible. Even if it doesn’t sound like your thing, you should try it; this is a very special and exciting new album.
Own Pace is not only New York MC Medhane Olushola’s first LP since 2017’s Poorboy, the only album (so far) from his collaborative project Medslaus with producer Slauson Malone; it’s his first full-length solo release, following on the heels of the self-released EPs DO FOR SELF (2017) and Ba Suba, Ak Jamm (2018). Like many of his fellow NYC undergrounders—MIKE, Pink Siifu, Standing on the Corner, Adé Hakim, Mavi—Olushola proves his miraculous ability to deliver a universally accessible hip-hop album that utilizes the wordless ad-libs, adventurous sampling techniques, and lushly nostalgic atmosphere that make this developing style so unique. Own Pace is clearly a very special project for Olushola; he “went thru the most” while making it, a level of personal involvement that seeps from every emotion-soaked second. The young rapper’s lyricism is at a new height here, especially on “Stranger,” which like “The Mint” on Some Rap Songs is made one of the album’s strongest tracks by a great feature from Navy Blue (as well as impressive production from the mysterious AFB). Over shuffling percussion slivers and a smooth melodic sample Olushula admits “faith been a stranger to me / it ain’t strange when I bleed / wasn’t able to see / the other side where it’s greener / over the fence that’s between us / hope is what I need but the sun don’t shine every day,” a simple yet evocative series of lines whose carefully constructed inner rhyme schemes make them nothing short of magnetic. Unsurprisingly, it’s not the only moment of introspection on Own Pace, an album that as a whole is heavily steeped in solitude, memory, and internal conflict, but it’s one of many examples of how Olushula conveys even the barest confessions with remarkable charisma.
The sounds from which Comfort is constructed all come from “everyday objects,” but the stuttering, stabbing rhythms Dmitri Zherbin (who adopts the percussive brevity of his surname for musical endeavors) coaxes from these innocuous items using ear-piercing distortion and shuddering tape loop layering are anything but everyday. The first few tracks glue together haphazard bits of restless clatter, each of the elements repeating on their own cycle like clockwork, and all together the result is rumbling cacophony made even more chaotic by the little bits of order it’s made up of. “Tshts” takes things in a bit of a different direction, ramping up the density to create a seething, stormy mass of wreckage. As with almost all of Comfort it’s still quite harsh, but “Tshts” is beautiful in a way not so much like the visceral catharsis of blasting feedback/effect noise but more in a Modern Jester sort of way, where a deafening mass of tape racket overpowers and immerses but all of its shifting parts can be observed, letting you appreciate its formation, how the scuzzy, scattered scraps of detritus and wrack are pulled together into that sublime maelstrom. Comfort is comprised of just 12 short tracks, each digestible miniatures that nonetheless feel fully developed and wondrously lush. Past “Tshts” we wade through churning gears and machinery, harrowing howls of reverb-coated sonorities, aquatic bubbles and churns, and the punishing static-plagued explosion of “Tshsh.” Zherbin’s newest release is imaginative, concise, and raucous when it needs to be.
“With a haunted look in her eyes, she said, ‘It’s comin’ for us…’ ”
Rorcal is yet another well-established band of whom I only became aware after hearing their 2019 release. The Swiss quintet has been around for over a decade now; their first EP came out in 2006 and Myrra, Mordvynn, Marayaa, their debut full-length, in 2008. Since then they’ve been honing a style formed from equal parts cavernous black metal and atmospheric sludge riffs, and Muladona is the latest remarkable entry in the continuum. Subtitled A tale by Eric Stener Carlson performed by Rorcal, the LP opens with a passage from the original Muladona, the 2016 Tartarus Press novel, read by the author himself. As Carlson sets the scene for the supernatural horror soon to occur against the bleak backdrop of a post-WWI Texas town ravaged by the Spanish flu, the musicians of Rorcal translate the tension and pervasive sense of impending doom into a seething rumble of noise out of which grow destructive but deliberate avalanches of unison hits. This first track, “This Is How I Came to Associate Drowning with Tenderness,” contains only a hint of the formidable power that Rorcal harnesses over the course of the album, where the massive, dense guitar mudslides coat hypnotic blast beat sections and the unified sludge slams conjure terrifying strength from the shadows. “Carnations Were Not the Smell of Death. They Were the Smell of Desire” is a concise and hard-hitting amalgam of everything that makes Muladona so fantastic, forcing heads into motion as its stretch of repetitive blasting culminates without warning into a crushingly cathartic sludge climax. The samples of Carlson’s reading throughout, whether it’s amidst the rubble at the end of “I’d Done My Duty to My Mother and Father. And More Than That I’d Found Love” or is set right in the middle of the chaos of epic closer “I Was the Muladona’s Seventh Tale,” gives Rorcal time for crucial moments of mood building and provides valleys of meditative yet harrowing respite before the deafening evil forces its way back in—and then retreats for a surprisingly optimistic conclusion.
“Every day since then has been a gift.”