The way of the cenotaph. When viewing older DM band pictures, rampant graveyard shots pop up. In an effort to capture the spirit of the dead shift, below are monoliths of unhallowed spontaneity—kicking off with the most ghastly looking. Grey Mist delivers unhinged Doom, albeit touching on that aspect as Alunah extends on their most doomy—female vocals galloping too. Not far from where the Doom bands illustriously depict gargoyles and burial grounds sculpts. Wolf Dawn—the oddball here, is unrelenting blackened Speed Metal; which is enough to imply major ass kicking. Die already. . . .
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 sorrow—In 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.
Anagrams—all the life’s wisdom can be found in anagrams! A lot can be done with a phrase or a sentence, but only the structural competence matters—further within that restriction is upholding meaning related to the words being anagramed. The less to no repetition of words in a phrase, the better a shot at it. Anagrams allow for so much wordplay among the meticulous homophones—here puns become trite and appear like child’s play. Taking them this further was a well worth self-challenge beyond previous music reviews—I don’t mind my language. . . .
These are handpicked phrases from each story of the collection—non machine aided re-workings.
HAUNTED WOMEN: THE BEST SUPERNATURAL TALES BY AMERICAN WOMEN WRITERS
WHET RUE YEARN EBBS: TRITE SPATIAL HOUNDS WREST MATERNAL ACUMEN
1. The Amber Gods (Harriet Prescott Spofford)
ALL THOSE VERY GNOSTIC DEITIES WHO ASSISTED AT CREATION.
SISTER COLOURS TOO AIDED WISHES SETTING THY ACT ELEVATION.
Story First. Story last.
—Flower the peach —Astra Castra, Numen Lumen
—IT IS COLDER THAN IT WAS.—I THINK I WILL GO TO SLEEP.
PLEA—TIE LAIC TWIN IN. ROOK HAS THIS WILED—GLOTTIS.
2. The True Story of Guenver (Elizabeth Stuart Phelps)
SONG AND STORY, LIFE AND DEATH ARE SO CRUEL TO A WOMAN.
WAN ALMOST DETHRONED, OAR FELONY AS TANGO AIDS CURE.
3. The Ghost in the Cap’n Brown House (Harriet Beecher Stowe)
BUT YOUR GRANDMA SHE BELIEVED IN THE GHOST, AND SO DID LADY LOTHROP.
GHOULY MANSION HOUSED GRIT IDLY. STAB ADVENT PROD ETHER DAB
4. The Yellow Wallpaper (Charlotte Perkins Gilman)
THIS PAPER LOOKS TO ME AS IF IT KNEW WHAT A VICIOUS INFLUENCE IT HAD!
I WAIT FATEFUL ANT EKES I PREPONE VACATED KIN WHICH IS MOOT SOUL HOIST!
5. The Story of a Day (Grace King)
SUCH A SPLENDID BLACK HEAD THAT HAD JUST YIELDED BREATH!
ENDURED BULK HATH JADED A HASTY DEATH! BILLED CAST CHIPS
6. The Little Room (Madelene Yale Wynne)
AND ALL THIS NEVER EXISTED EXCEPT IN HER IMAGINATION?
THEN EMANATING SERIAL INCEPTIONS HID EXTRA IDLE VEXES?
7. Her Letters (Kate Chopin)
HE VANISHED SILENTLY; SEEMINGLY INTO SOME INKY INFATHOMABLE SPACE.
HEAD ON; FAINT NOSEY HALE BELYING HIS MOSTLY SKIVED IMMINENT ESCAPE.
8. The Foreigner (Sarah Orne Jewett)
I ALWAYS RUN OF AN IDEA THAT THE SEA KNOWS ANGER THESE NIGHTS AND GETS FULL O’ FIGHT.
HEED A SHALLOW FUNK HUGE WAGES SAT AT INTENDN’T TO INGRAIN FAITHLESS GHOST FEAR.
9. Luella Miller (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)
SHE’S GOT STRENGTH ENOUGH TO HANG ONTO OTHER FOLKS TILL SHE KILLS ‘EM.
GHOULS STROKE H’NGES FOR THE NTH TIME TONIGHT TELLS HEAL SONG’S LOOK.
10. The Lost Ghost (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)
SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN VERY BEAUTIFUL IF SHE HAD NOT BEEN SO DREADFUL.
BRIDE WOUNDED BY EERIE HALF LOVE FUELS VESSEL AND BEAU HUNT.
11. The Bell in the Fog (Gertrude Atherton)
HE SPENT A HAUNTED NIGHT, BUT THE NEXT DAY STRANGER HAPPENINGS BEGAN.
EXTEND AUGUR HANDY BEINGS HATH BESET SIGN STRAIGHTEN BATHING PATENT.
12. The Fullness of Life (Edith Wharton)
PERHAPS NOW I SHALL REALLY KNOW WHAT IT IS TO LIVE.
WHITELIST KNELL AVAILS WORRY WHIPS ON SHAPE A LOT.
13. Pomegranate Seed (Edith Wharton)
OH, YOU NEEDN’T IMAGINE THAT ANYTHING CAN EVER FRIGHTEN ME AGAIN!
ANY ONE MEAN TACT, OUGHT MENDING THY HIGH FINITE TANG AN’ REVERIE!
Since I don’t have mild triskaidekaphobia, I regress from overlooking everything else to pinpoint 13‘s loom in my life—it’s two pithy stories, three outstanding pieces, one obsessive em dash shoaler.
As an—Industrial—album dedicated to fear, it isn’t serendipitous to have Dead Body Music II have such an ominously terrific and imposing cover. It is fucking Charlie Chaplin and his fears about the film industry—his famous self depiction arrayed to the grinding gears. The same is now humourously birthing the earliest stage of an EBM band ravaging humans to create DBM. Fucking hell. Fuckin’ right. Let’s not get caught up in the music industry’s premonitions lest it will be generationally traced to pussyfooting 21st Century lost causes.
Vocally, K2 sings and speaks—confronting topics revolving around existence. The band’s aesthetics are a fervent extension and the Empty Future video epitomizes the rigid aura. Industrial by principle and ajar to non scripting. That is the shit. Fuck what you heard. It is only on reel where high and low values permeate. But unlike that or Chaplin’s, The Mad Mane Machine needs a lot of noise. Some kinds.
Sans romance playing advocacy to gothic tragedy,—Dead Ophelia is death. With its noise effects and sense of auditory attraction, DBM propels KnK‘s ground beyond Industrial. Sure, K1 and K2 proclaim to metal listenership, but it is more of a creative coincidence on the Industrial-wise Dead Body Music because—what C21 lost causes?—Gardens of Gehenna was crafting such words that saw the light at the millennial turn—and this was meant as a play for aggressiveness and EBM—especially on the non EBM side of things. Kill!