Transcendental in the best sense of the word, removed, as it were, from Kant's romantic and idealistic thoughts on transcendentalism. Cold 'n' dark, eerily so, within expansive tracts running through torn rips in space, connoting but the fountainhead of mounting podiums a.k.a Darkspace's crowning moment, that is, II. II's Three spacious tracks, assembled effortlessly from the well honed ideology developed over their renowned trilogy, are driven in largos (slightly slower than before: I) by mesmeric rifts conjuring stifling miasma propagating heavily within space; space accompanied by blast beats (less prominent than before: I) who with a modest mien sit lower in the mix, receding tastefully into the over arching atmosphere. The protracted bouts of BM rise and fall between bookends of continuity, rising seamlessly out of ritualistically warring ambiances reminding of a sinister brethren of Kluster-ish komischmusik. All in all, a handsome second brethren in the trilogy of Darkspace.

“His incisive mind, his intense personality, his whole heart & soul – all were dedicated to the furtherance of his ideas, even in his choice of food. For instance, he refused to have eggs & milk at the same meal on the grounds, expressed in the same terms as he used for his ‘linear orchestrations’, that “eggs & milk are too ‘analogous’”. (Hans Richter on Hugo Ball)

As I rumination on the above quote, I think (this happens oft - thinking that is), are not we lucky that Wold was unperturbed by the idea of black metal and noise being ‘too analogous’? As, in my opinion, these two noisome suspects are very much like milk and eggs! Curdled and smashed. Partners in crime, some might say.

In recent years Wold have spearheaded the black metal – noise bastardizations in a dastardly way and this was the first full length. Unlike Abruptum before them, who’s twisted and satanic drudge, disturbed and disgusted, Wold sidestepped the hateful projections of their forefathers. Oh yes, they are, at times an ugly beast, but they imbue their lo-fi clatter with Epithet’s like atmospheric and (oddly) melodious; if I dare utter words of beauty in the same sentence as Wold! L.O.T.M.P. , after possessing it in its solid state, reminds me fondly of the day I lost my trousers; a splendid pair bottoms they were too! Grieved over the loss I thought life was done, but I made the most of a dastardly situation and found myself a rock; 'twas ugly to look at. Cherishing it nevertheless, with each day creeping by its roughened surface took on a glazed look through my eyes. The façade slowly slipping away to reveal the loveable pulsating heart that is the skeletal structure for L.O.T.M.P..

‘Tis with these basic rudiments that Wold arrives at their outré breed of Black Metal. A sideways slant on composition is imbued by the repetitive & archaic, archaic with a touch of mysticism. The soul is veiled by a diaphanous cloud of shattered debris hacked off, sometimes tastefully, by a whirling, buzzing chainsaw. Amidst the whirling buzz, fragments of ethereal beauty slipway under the shrouded stratosphere, punctuated by synths and an insistent snare drum that ensnares the heart as it makes its way belligerently towards the zenith. As a summation of their sound ‘tis like listening to the radio late at night with the dial off plum, the fluctuating buzz of white noise infiltrating the intended broadcast with its charm.

When this unlikely beauty was unleashed in ’05 ‘twas wrought by apprehension. We all know the purist don’t like to be unsettle in there home territory. Then these chaps from Canada come dashing out with audacity on their sleeve and the likes of Akitsa on their tongue to stir the coop. There are those who love and those who hate, both plentiful in their numbers, each with the vicious opinions. I think it’s clear now that Wold’s approach titillates me in ways untold and rekindled a dormant dalliance with a former love. As Marcel Duchamp said:

"I am suspicious of my own good taste!"

If only asphyxiation were as enjoyable as this album, then more people might be found dead in ‘The Quest of Absurdity’. This quest is how the album begins; reaching, searching, out into space, abstractions of thought, almost ethereal in delivery. A false façade of what is to come! What a thrashing we are about receive!

Let us hearken back the early nineties. Death Metal was still raw and in its prime. If one were to poke and prod at the nooks and crannies of the underground, unique entities would topple forth into unsuspecting ears. It was in this era that Asphyx stepped up to the plate to grace our pretty little ears with their tempestuous debut that would mark the beginning and end of my interest in the band. It is not unusual for someone with my tastes to take this stance, to cherry pick then spit contemptuously on the rest. As mentioned above ‘The Rack’ kicks off the procession with an instrumental interlude, formless and drifting. You are now ensconced in your armchair, gripping the wings lightly, knowing quiet well this is the calm before the storm. How do you know this? You were recommended this as brethren to Autopsy. They were not wrong in their parity between sounds, tho’ mark my word; this is no reflection in the spiegelsaal.

Racks, in the decrepit realm of Death Metal remind me of torture, and this might just work perfectly as a metaphor to describe Asphyx’s sound: “A form lies face down on the rack, male or female, we do not know, lets not make preferences, they are beautiful nevertheless in their own macabre way. Tensing, thrashes rein down on this ‘Vermin’, harsh and raw, riddled with old death. They mused upon their ‘diabolical existence’, the nightly orgies of thrash, death and doom. Sometimes it was a combination of thrash and death, then death and doom, then thrash, death and doom all at once, it mattered little now in this ‘Wasteland of Terror’. Encapsulated in this terror an ‘Ode to a Nameless Grave’ rang loudly in their ears. Grave nameless no longer, the prophecy was writ, ‘Pages in Blood’, on their welt strewn back. Oh, if those woes were not enough, the highlight, the epic, is yet to come. They always save the best till last. We are only 27 odd minutes in but still fresh in the minds eye is a limp bloodied mess. I squint, wondering to myself ‘was it ever human’? I wonder what they are thinking, nothing probably. What is there to think in such a state? When it is nigh on impossible to conjure up those rasping breaths out of withered lungs. They say ‘The Rack’ is a place where ‘The Sickening Dwell’, truth be told. The epic, very well, I warn it is ‘Asphyx(iation)’ at its worst (best?). Lids flicker with distress, they know what’s coming: suffocation. A blackness veiling their face, the material coarse, irregularities formed in its surface by others trying to gnash away the end with their teeth. They revolt, but the end is always the same, silence, it matters not.”

…The Rack…

Lovely cover, if I might say so. The LP is a sight for sore eyes.

One pallid noon the kindness of density struck me odd. As I started to vociferate over, things, names, music, people that struck me as dense, the latter of this list sprawling into quite an oration, but that is of no import here, I realised I have a penchant for the aurally dense. And this my kind friends is where my adoration for Incantation begins, then propagates above and beyond. I've heard many say, with conviction mind you, 'Mortal Throne of Nazarene' is DARK! (if the tale is to be believed), darker than any of those frost bitten, makeup ridden, black metal cohorts. Woe to the soul who disagrees. I, myself, am not one to swallow all that comes my way with placid concurrence, but the masses might be onto something.

Having procured dense & dark from this havoc, we've found ourselves a sturdy platform to elucidate on the anomalous nature of this album. I thought to myself once, twice when the weathers fine, by God, Incantation has unleashed a poisonous miasma all fetid and damned into the world. Nurturing the doomed and sodden mien of their first album ‘Onward to Golgotha’ with a honed labour of love, letting burgeon a natural progression into the abyss. They’ve taken what I've cradled, misguidedly, over the years as love for ol’ school death metal and enameled it in a creeping darkness that comes at you from roundabout. Sometimes it trudges along in contented doom, only to jolt the neck and turn the stomach with brevity of speed. An effortless permutation of tremolo picking and power cords is a testament to the musicianship of McEntee and Pillard, this duel draped heavily with rhythms from top to toe, that is bass and drum. But, in all honesty, these chaps could be banging away at potatoes and carrots for all I care, ‘tis the summation of all the intricacies that are its splendour. No dichotomy of wills. A seamless whole.

If I were to grasp at the tendrils of my mind to make tenuous statements of ‘who are their ilk?’ I’d be bewildered by the pointlessness of such an act, but I will try nevertheless, with what I deem to be an apt comparison. Take Demilich’s ‘Nespithe’ from the year before, its deviant dissonances coming at your mind from angles best left untold, probing for gaps to fill... you know it well. Keep this thought. But now exchange Demilich’s angular fashioning with the notion of miasmas and you’ll be left with Incantation’s dense cloud that stains the mind with rancour. Not to dup the fool with this comparison, there is nothing special about the vocals, no bleaching from within, just a concerted effort, which turns into their biggest downfall.

Anyway, hats off to Incantation for giving me years entertainment in 35min blocks.