Friday, January 06, 2023
about seeing a friend one last time
Sunday, January 01, 2023
about missing
Friday, December 30, 2022
another generous review—this time for some atmospheric black metal band from Siberia
ULTAR’s latest album, At the Gates of Dusk, often stays near the moonlit path worn by the second-wave black metal pioneers. Songs like “Midnight Walk and Reminiscences of Necromancy” and “My Rope” feature the genre conventions—blast beats and rasping gauged-eye screams. Rhythms on these songs trend toward the furious and unyielding while the drums, not the guitars, dazzle.
But ULTAR plays atmospheric black metal that leans at times toward post-metal and even shoegaze. This album, which features higher production value than the pioneer and modern purist recordings, features more accessible melodies even while retaining a lot of the older back metal stylings. The melodies—buoyant and boreal, layered and lofty—ring out in their simplicity within the harrowed arrangement’s peduncular hallucinosis.
Some of the most obvious post-metal/shoegaze sounds arrive with the slower-paced “Antiques”—a trotting Elk of a song, its antlered head dipping as it climbs the rise of red hills. The guitars are fuzzed and jangle more than they vomit distortion. Likewise, “Rats in the Walls” opens with a delicate construction of guitar harmonics, reverb, and fuzz. Then comes the distortion and the screaming, the splashing cymbals, and then the onslaught alongside a simple melody. This is perhaps the album’s most dramatic song; although the promotional materials claim the album is a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, during this song I think of Mary Shelley and picture the monster Frankenstein crashing through the Arctic in a stolen dog sled, his creator, Victor, closing in as the ice begins to crack.
ULTAR is a five-piece band from Krasnoyarsk, Siberia. At the Gates of Dusk, released November 20, 2022, follows the albums PANTHEON MMXIX (2019) and Kadath (2016). The band has opened for Behemoth, Cradle of Filth, Myrkur, Suffocation, Vltimas, Hate, Wiegedood, Alcest, Swallow the Sun, Harakiri for the Sky, and The Ocean.
Saturday, December 17, 2022
a review of a heavy metal band from The Netherlands
On The Burden, Throwing Bricks compose leaden post-metal grooves. Opener “Bricks of Grace” introduces the album’s thick sound—a sound that looms across hemispheres. The vocal goes at a full roar, and higher-end guitars layer on top. Then, at 4 minutes, the distortion drops and a reverb-laden guitar strums a few chords. The band often creates dynamics in songs by shifting into these atmospheric, quieter parts. A bass guitar enters and creates a flow, lending some substance to this little indulgence, followed by lighter drumming, then a pillow-muffled roar. Then at 6:10, everything kicks back in at full volume.
The songs “Clearly Awake” and “Hall of Mirrors” hammer out a bit of a sharper-edged sound than the album-opening song and fold more melody into the heaviness. Similarly, “Doubt,” after a few perfunctory strums on a reverb-darkened guitar, blasts into the washing surge of melodic heaviness.
This 5-piece band from Utrecht, The Netherlands, aim for an epic sound rather than a dazzling show of guitar and vocal histrionics and rhythmic acrobatics. The fuller, more melodic chords on the album seem introspective even while the sound expands out always in volume. The sound engineering and recording might be the album’s main feature; it was recorded and produced at Much Luv Studios by Tim de Gieter and mastered at The Atomic Garden by Jack Shirley.
The Burden is the band’s second full-length and was released October 28th on Tartarus Records. Some bands that have been mentioned as reference points for Throwing Bricks include MØL, Oathbreaker, Amenra, Ultha, and Fall of Efrafa. But on The Burden, Throwing Bricks reminds me of Envy but with more chugging guitar parts—loud parts smeared with sludge-oil filled with the metal shavings of heavy machinery.
Friday, December 09, 2022
something about “Working,” a book by Studs Terkel
Studs Terkel (1912–2008) was an American historian, broadcaster, and writer; in 1974, he published Working: People Talk About What They Do All Day and How They Feel About What They Do, a nonfiction book that—true to its title—catalogs many, many people of various walks of life talking about their work. During his lifetime, Terkel produced a few works based on his wonderings about the lives of the strangers you pass every day.
This is probably an okay or even fine book, but I grew annoyed by the too-on-the-nose “regular guy” voices. It was like, “I’m what you call a [job title]. Our system isn’t perfect. But we make do. The other day, we were cranking the [name of something]. I’m thinking, ‘I can’t believe this. What are we doing over here?’ Then I get $50, which made me feel great! So that’s the deal.” Five hundred pages of this.
Note: For reasons I do not understand and have not bothered to look into, I associate Terkel with Chicago baseball.
Friday, December 02, 2022
a review of a noise rock/mathcore band
Wednesday, November 23, 2022
about this Thanksgiving
I am looking forward to Thanksgiving. I like the turkey in a bag, the mashed potatoes, green beans, pie and whipped cream, and the Cowboys. I am looking forward to eating and watching the game together. It never matters to me if the game is exciting or if the turkey is juicy. I just want to smell the food cooking in the house and know that you are right there.
Saturday, November 19, 2022
a quick blurb about some noise rock band
Friday, November 11, 2022
about a recently published obituary
I enjoyed reading this, but it also reminded me of a scene from Young Hearts Crying, a Richard Yates novel. In the scene, a writer is working on a short biographical statement to go with his photo in his soon-to-be-published debut book; he gives the draft bio to his wife.
And this was the finished copy he brought out for Lucy's approval:Michael Davenport was born in Morristown, New Jersey, in 1924. He served in the Army Air Force during the war, attended Harvard, lost early in the Golden Gloves, and now lives in Larchmont, New York, with his wife and their daughter."I don't get the part about the Golden Gloves," she said.
"Oh, honey, there's nothing to 'get.' You know I did that. I did it in Boston, the year before I met you; I've told you about it a hundred times. And I did lose early. Shit, I never even got beyond the third—"
"I don't like it."
"Look," he said. "It's good if you can work a light, self-deprecating touch into something like this. Otherwise, it's—"
"But this isn't light and it isn't self-deprecating," she told him. "It's painfully self-conscious, that's all it is. It's as though you're afraid Harvard may sound sort of prissy, so you want to counteract it right away with this two-fisted nonsense about prizefighting. Listen: You know these writers who've spent their whole lives in college? With their advanced degrees and their teaching appointments and their steady rise to full professorship? Well, a lot of them are scared to put that stuff on their book jackets, so they get themselves photographed in work shirts and they fall back on all the dumb little summer jobs they had when they were kids: 'William So-and-so has been a cowhand, a truck driver, a wheat harvester, and a merchant seaman.' Don't you see how ludicrous that is?"
Saturday, November 05, 2022
and posts an interview with some hardcore band





