Thursday, April 2, 2009

La nature est un temple

















Elements filter in as mist blanketing your eyes some frigid, late autumn morn before, blasting out of the grey canopy, a storm, rhythmic, blinds; at two minutes you silent step into a cold tributary, a Burzum/Nightside-era Emperor mesmerism. Two further minutes on, the first arctic blast freezes that Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, forever locked in those once-mutable waters, ever changing, ever the same, the cycle of ages, a careful tread through treachery, revisited to catalog the details. Then, a warning, a snare hit, another, an avalanche drumroll bids you run, quickening, a cataract of tremolo riffs, the blackened sheen of ancient, mossy earth. Run, still you run. Exhausted, your knees sink in the analog snow, to fade out.

To fade in, only to fade away, never permanent, but on the the blackened astral strings of an Ahrimanic Trance. Think of a walk in winter; whether battered by thick, white polygons or an empty, wind-sodden sky, the trees on either side remain both a shield and a gateway, protection and wounding. Transpose that sense of raw nature into the humidity of late summer; the illusion of refreshing, transparent shade, that flimsiest of respites, the unyielding repetition of extremity, a shiver, a drop of sweat, let the seasons absorb, a solitary community. Determined, relaxed percussion illuminates the hidden corners of the monolith; cold, no, heat. You cannot tell, heaven and hell dissolves, feel only the doom-saturated breeze, hear only its sound spiraling through the branches and leaves, let yourself melt away. Melt away.

Drop by drop, a trickle off a hanging leaf, Ex Cathedra.

La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.
Unlike M. Baudelaire, these Pacific Northwesterners prefer the natural to the artificial, yet the disdain for so much of the modern realm from that decadent ancestor exists in the seed of such a post-Romanticism, our confused speech, our inability to decipher anything beyond the quotidian, looked upon with a skeptical eye whose voice, reflected in a pool of greasy earth, bubbles forth a vicious anger to the interloper, a joy to me of branch and grass and flesh, each in a state of constant decay. Yet, a ghost of renewal at 4:44, hearing only the air and the wash of ambient sound, the raspy, pantheistic lamentation, soon venomous, a primordial plea.

Rapid fire eruptions of Crystal Ammunition shatter weakened bodies, but never the spirit, the recoil echoed in askew cymbal crashes before being enveloped in swaddling, blackened hypnosis. Cloudbursts circle above, searching for prey, the ephemeral glare of single-note acoustic darts lure you out into the open, amid the weeping grasses for a triptych of Opethian clarity at 9:19, 9:34, 10:17. Let the rain fall. Let the voiceless choir come ex cathedra. O, be joyful unto nature. Blessed are those that wander in her sea of brown and green, this tide of ancient, pungent keys, this Black Cascade. As forward-looking as the Malevolent Grain EP? No. A deep root, a comforting, necessary, catharsis.

26 comments:

okjimm said...

Ya know...... I read this whole thing twice& a half.......
" Transpose that sense of raw nature into the humidity of late summer; the illusion of refreshing, transparent shade, that flimsiest of respites, the unyielding repetition of extremity, a shiver, a drop of sweat, let the seasons absorb, a solitary community."

It's gonna take at LEAST three beer to figure this out..... or at least that many to remember why I wanted three beers in the first place.

But it does remind me of one of my favorite summer bands, "Three Beers 'Til Dubuque".....

see... I think EVERY post should mention beer somewhere!!!

Tom Harper said...

Good, I feel better after reading Okjimm's comment. I'll have to read this again before I can leave an intelligent comment. Not that I'm guaranteeing it'll be intelligent, but...

S.W. anderson said...

I sense a melange inspired by Republican arguments against the budget and against global warming — except that this post is much more honest, clear and to the point.

I won't be surprised if, watching C-SPAN, parts or maybe all of it will be recited by one or more of Boehner's minions.

Should that happen, please file suit.

Utah Savage said...

Here Here! What they said. And more, but not from me.

Tengrain said...

Graves, you swine!

I think that was supposed to be a poem, but I did not read Nantuckett in there anywhere, so it is beyond my grasp.

Someone said something about beer?

Regards,

Tengrain

Christopher said...

Pigeons on the grass, alas?

Randal Graves said...

First off, let me congratulate everyone on the strangest group of comments I ever thought I'd see on a review of a black metal album. You guys are great!

okjimm, when one thinks of summery bands, one often thinks of, for example, the Beach Boys. These guys sound nothing like the Beach Boys. But I'm sure they drink beer.

tom, hey, I don't leave intelligent posts, so please, feel free to leave Palin-esque ditties, gosh darnit!

SWA, there's no crying in C-Span! Oh wait, there is.

I think we just made Boehner cry again.

utah, thanks, but now I'm really confused.

tengrain, there once was a brewer from Nantucket.
His sleigh ride crashed, so fuck it
was his drunken plea
as he fell into the sea,
his fish-eaten remains fit in a bucket.

christopher, I don't think Gertrude Stein would listen to metal. Or, maybe she would.

Pigeons on the concrete might work because sometimes those birds wander into the library.

Christopher said...

I disagree, Randal.

Gertrude loved all that was new and contemporary.

Remember, it was Gertrude Stein, along with her partner, Alice B. Toklas, who collected Picasso and Cezanne, while Old Europe, particularly, Old Paris, dismissed the painters as either talentless or insane.

Old girl, "got it."

susan said...

I'm still not planning to buy the album but the review hit some amazing high notes. I also had to read it twice and a half.. followed by a beer chaser.

okjimm said...

oh oh oh oh oh..... I LOVE any poem with Nantucket in it!

Boy! I'mma gonna start a list of everything that rhymes with Nantucket..... Shit&Whiskers! This should fill up the rest of 'friday at work'!!!

Randal Graves said...

christopher, excellent point, but giving something a shot and championing it ain't the same gig. ;-)

susan, it's better to read my stuff drunk, will probably make more sense.

okjimm, you should come up with bizarre word for each day of the week. Think of all the work you can avoid!

okjimm said...

super-markut

scuzz-bucket

... Hey! It's harder than you would think

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