LAMENT CHRIST (IN VENTUS EST DOLOR…)

  The life of black and white. It is such a gloomy and grainy leaning for dedicated doomsters and far end black metallers. Misanthropy neither is colourful but its charm in Doom‘s diatribes is indescribable with a completist drift; more-so its adverse effect on mood, disposition, and spirits. Of importance is inclination to willingly allow its encompassment. Totally.
  Funeral Doom relies on entirely crushing and subjugating the partakers in its playing and consumption. Emotional deterioration. On my part—since discovering DBM and Doom, satiation has strained over the pale horizon. Lament Christ‘s demo forays into this exact expanse, with its meanderings and moments of delivery. Clocking away as a procession, with what can be termed as field samples—harnessed space and nocturnal life forms.

  A lot on its gushing sorrowIn Ventus Est Dolor…—heavily relies on Black Metal. Times are plenty when the guitars meticulously drear from BM to Doom with a visible and soul-searing temperament—streaks of dark melancholy are hewn from the BM riffs abruptly, and equally for the inverse. Melody multiplies with its unfolding; and once The Cry of the Loon…—really an expanse—trails off, BM guitars emanate, usurping but their effect is nary close to limited. Sometimes trading or sharing sections with the slower Doom.
  This rendition of Funeral Doom as effective as its approach is, is mournfully unreplicated—even though its countenance and amplitude seems to have prostrated Locus Horrendus – The Night Cries of a Sullen Soul… tremendously. The tortured growls—the proficiently purveyed that make (Funeral) Doom a force to reckon with, terms with extending sorrow—lay to waste any sense of forgoing a dismayed existence; elevating the sense of hopelessness—amidst clean singing and humming. Screams relay an emotional peak and are eminently staged at moments of heightened playing and musical intensity. Locus Horrendus followed suit, as Desire accosted themselves to the whole array: spoken word—poignant growls of grief and piano sections with a sonata of sorts that provides the listener with context to be really pensive—outbursts of howls; only relegating the BM. Which is a few steps to being the albums distraction.
This is for contemplating sorrow and its accompanying misery at sundown, with the help of thunderpeal. It only gets depressing, with the channeling evocation that unfurls past the half mark—which matter-of-factly is unnoticable since the songs are lethargical across the seamlessness. This music is best aided by environment and outdoor surroundings for total impact. Is it summer? Take an evening away from civilization.



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