The power of Christ compels you to listen to this album, dammit.

Like satanic clockwork, that merry band of Polish pranksters better known as Behemoth are back to spill forth yet another blood-stained platter (their ninth!) of tenebrous, death-laden occult dirges from the depths of those extra spooky places that always put a devilish smile on my wretched face. Too much purple prose? Fuck off -- if you haven't already since I'm reviewing something that very few of you (thanks, Tom) wouldn't spin, even for cold, hard cash or a competent and affordable health care plan -- I ain't Hemingway. Let's compare:

See Mephistopheles run.

See the Blakeian emanation Mephistopheles run, bursting through the poorly circumscribed magical protection of the pitiful human prey, banishing them to unspeakable torment, their screaming pleas for mercy heard by none but eternity.

See?

Since I'm in a charitable mood, let's address the needling cons and save the pros until the end, on both album and post. In grimy metal circles, Behemoth is known, despite their brutally efficient professionalism and impressive musical chops, by some wags to bear the virtue of consistency, by others, the dreaded sin of sameness. These latter charges have also been leveled at more popular outfits such as AC/DC and Motörhead -- hell, recall Vivaldi or Telemann in comparison to Bach. The former are masterful, often memorable notesmiths. Then there's the freakishly otherworldly Johann Sebastian. Are such accusations without merit? Since 1999's blistering yet hooky -- yes, death metal can have hooks, wankers -- Satanica, still their Churchillian hour -- and aside from the stray track here and there, for all of the subsequent albums' collective quality, has there been a full-length moment of transcendence? A couple did indeed howl at the door with wolf-like ferocity. Little pig, little pig, let me in. A string of year-end top tens? Without doubt. But for every three-to-six minutes of evil genius such as Slaves Shall Serve or Horns ov Baphomet, there's an In the Garden of Dispersion or Prometherion. Excessive, primal rage often slays the wrong target. Is complex, sinister sentiment saved from being collateral damage on Evangelion?

I pause in deep, Neoplatonic contemplation, then say you betcha.

Not that most of the past compositions didn't breathe -- which is where the menace comes from; Sabbath taught us that from day one -- but having all the raw materials you desire at your disposal means nothing. Architecture is always key. The lungwork here is subtle, and on a sickeningly vicious tune such as Transmigrating Beyond Realms ov Amenti, these spaces can get washed away on a cursory listen swamped in ambient sound, but that's what headphones in the dark are for. Witnessing more dynamic yet manifestly rampaging excursions like He Who Breeds Pestilence and Alas, Lord Is Upon Me, it's overt, but the pinnacle comes with the album's magnum opus closer, the flagstone-by-flagstone crawl of a majestically dark homage to the Miltonic hero, with its trackless, blackened alchemy, bubbling sulfur solos and lyrics composed by former Belle Epoque poet and current corpse Tadeusz Micinski, thanks for the lack of translation you bastards. I'd ask my 82-year old grandma for foreign language assistance but I don't want her devoutly Roman Catholic heart to spontaneously combust and then it's a case of no presents for Christmas.

Album of the year material? Depending on the supremacy of the as-yet-unreleased Katatonia, I'd lay a Lincoln or two down in Vegas. Transcendental? Did not Asia once croon in many a Gremlin that only time will tell? Venomous, sinewy, catchy, brutally imprinting its message upon the psyche, 'tis everything a metal album should be. Kudos, gents. Now be on your way, corrupting the innocent is a thankless task without end.