These shores are crowded, friends.
Turn back while you can. See those boats behind you? Those vessels overbooked with seasick passengers just like you? You’ve been coming over in droves for nigh on a decade now and it is killing us. Can’t you see there’s no room for more of you? No, they’ve taken your eyes? Well then, use your nose. Take a whiff. Whaddayasmell? Not food, I can tell you. There’s no more food. Those gluttons in Wolves in the Throne Room and fucking…fucking Alcest have gobbled it all up, leaving none for our children and certainly none for you. And what’s left for us to eat? Nothing but scraps, crumbs and of course our own excrement—which is produced in greater volume than the scraps and crumbs, as you might guess. We eat dogs too sometimes. Puppies? No, what kind of monster would eat a puppy? Go back to whatever puppy-eating pit you crawled out of and leave post-black metal alone.
Wait, wait—what did you say your name was? Vukari? Spell it. V-u-k-a-r-i. Well shit. You’re on the list, kids. Hey Marty, let ’em off the boat. No, don’t crack their skulls. You can start cracking skulls once they’re off the boat. Better yet, fire up that cannon over yonder and sink the rest of ’em into the cold black bowels of Neptune. But listen to me, Valkyrie—what?, oh yes, sorry, Vukari. Listen well: You boys are the last fucking post-black metal band I am letting on these shores, you hear? I mean it. No more after you. We’re at capacity. Not a square-inch patch of free space to stand on over here, no sirs. So, uh…clearly you’ve brought no money with you. In which case you’ll have to sing for your supper. Why not play us a little ditty?
Huh. That wasn’t so bad. What did you think, Marty? Doesn’t sound like Motörhead? Shut up Marty—you don’t know jack about nothin’. Quit clowning around and crack some skulls already—preferably starting with the skulls of those dweebs in Deafheaven trying to sneak back into the country after all their gear and passports and DNA were stolen at a festival in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Boo-fuckin’-hoo. I don’t care how nice the screamy one’s hair is—crack his fuckin’ skull and send the rest packing until it’s time for their cash-cow 20 Year Reunion…
I’m sorry you had to see that, Vukari. That was brutal. But say, what’ve you got to bring to the table that’s new? Nothing new, you say? Okay well whaddayagot that’s old? Compositions stretching from one horizon to another, pleasant chords and simple earworm leads, moments of ponderous quietude bookended by raging post-hardcore riffage, effects-laden interlude tracks…yup, it all checks out. Your favorite record is Altar of Plagues‘ White Tomb, you say? We never would have guessed. We don’t strictly need any more of that shit, we’ve got it coming out of our ears already, but at the very least we must commend you for playing with palpable grit and vinegar. And for not phoning it in with critical-mass reverb and directionless chord-salads like so many of those about-to-have-their-skulls-cracked losers that came to these shores with you. You know what you want to sound like, and you sound exactly like it. Good on you, champ! If this were five years ago we’d be all over this like rice on flies. No, wait. Like mice on shit? I don’t know. Too bad it’s not five years ago anymore. It is now. And as of right now we have very limited reserves of praise to heap upon bands of your ilk. Wait though! I’ve got one solitary kudo left in my pocket, and it’s yours for somehow managing to pen a post-black metal album we were able to sit through without tying cinderblocks to our midsections and leaping into the sea.
Now off with you before I change my mind and let Marty have at you. Who’s that behind you? An Autumn for Something or Other? Marty! Get your club! It’s time to see some brains!
3/5 Flaming Toilets ov Hell
(Band Photo VIA)