How odd, the journey of music.
Some time ago I posted that my Black Metal journey was at an end for now, and that my foray into Post- and Indie-Rock was (re)beginning. This has not let off, infact I've been enjoying it immensely and continue to do so thanks to some lesser known bands such as Laura, and an up and comer from Norway, Braving The Glacier.
In recent times, my love of Black Metal has taken me into unexpected territory. Explorations into Blasphemer's side project, Aura Noir, Darkthrone's brilliant latest album Fuck Off And Die and newer bands such as America's Toxic Holocaust and Skeletonwitch, combined with an old love of 80s zombie flicks such as Return of the Living Dead have slowly instilled a desire to explore the original catalyst for my foray into more extreme styles: the hallowed halls of 80s Thrash Metal.
It was bands like Megadeth and Slayer, and later (briefly, even though not Thrash) Morbid Angel which led me towards darker extremes, only to be put on ice for around a decade later on.
Recently I've been searching for the earlier, dirty, primitive and more urbanised Thrash bands, and it seems this trend may well continue for me. It takes me back to my roots, and serves as a brilliant tool for further understanding true Black Metal.
It's very interesting listening to Death Angel's "The Ultra-Violence", a pivotal album released back in 1987 by the band when they were still in their teens. Listening to it now, I can easily mentally transcribe it into a Black Metal context. The influences are so clear, it's a fascinating realisation which I am delighted to indulge in, and will continue to for some time to come...
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Spiral Of Black Doom.
Words, stupid thoughtless words
Unthinking, directionless
Emission of an overactive heart
A love of her magnificent detail
Crumbling into scrutinous shards of broken glass
Speaking cuts of dripping blood
Unthinking, directionless
Emission of an overactive heart
Crumbling into scrutinous shards of broken glass
Speaking cuts of dripping blood
Recoiling, a half-turn to run
Arms flailing, missing the embrace
I streak away into the self-loathing of embarrassment.
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