When I first heard “The Devil’s Orchard” from Heritage, I knew immediately that Opeth’s tenth album was going to be different, was going to make a statement, was going to grab people’s attention, for better or worse. Yes, the Swedish progressive metal band has traveled a long way from Orchid‘s death/black metal roots, gradually emphasizing the progressive aspect more and more with each release, especially in recent years with Ghost Reveries and Watershed, but Heritage is the weirdest Opeth offering yet. Make of that word what you will, but with Heritage Opeth fans the world over can expect an album that’s devoid of growling vocals (Damnation it’s not, though), flushed with odd time signatures, accentuated with classical guitar flourishes, and bursting with a clean guitar tone that noodles through bluesy riffs bordering on a jazz-metal fusion. Sure, some of that’s familiar territory, but it’s never been delivered in such overwhelming doses and is sure to divide the ranks. It’s also worth noting that Per Wiberg’s organ is featured more prominently than ever before and the songs, which have an average length of about six minutes (not one of them breaking the ten minute mark), are quite short as far as Opeth songs go. It all adds up to one unusual and unforgettable Opeth experience (including the highly symbolic cover by longtime collaborator Travis Smith), one you might not warm up to if you’re looking for another My Arms, Your Hearse or Morningrise. However, if you’ve always loved what Mikael Åkerfeldt and company can do when they let their genius freak freely, if you’ve got a soft spot for their mellower stuff and have dug the direction the band’s been heading, Heritage might just win you over.
Ulver have always delivered dark music in one form or another. Many forms, actually. From black metal to experimental to electronic to progressive to ambient to avant-garde, they’ve permeated every conceivable pretentious genre throughout their 17-year career with profound passion and demonstrative secrecy. Their art, while ever changing, is always high, and now these Norwegian artists, four years removed from their last album, have embraced a whole new expression of accessibility. Having thrived as an independent band for years, Ulver now find themselves with management and backing from a big label, and have taken to doing something in the last few years they never have before: playing live. Wars of the Roses, then, ought to be considered carefully, its structure plastered with new clay, its window treatments pulled back at last. Opener “February MMX” comes on like a vacuous gothic pop rock song, leading us to believe the house of Ulver is stale and empty, but, once inside, the beating heart beneath the floor ignites the madness and renews all hope . Much like Shadows of the Sun, the remaining six songs on Wars of the Roses rely on breathless emptiness to achieve their haunting efficacy, a well-conceived mix of percussion, bowed guitar, strings, wind instruments, piano, electronics, and, in the case of “Providence,” a female vocalist (Siri Stranger). It remains, by large, a sleepy effort, but that’s not to say it’s boring, because Ulver’s ability to transcend mere ritualistic potency is mesmerizing. They finish it off with the 15:00 minute “Stone Angels,” whose lyrics are a text written by American poet Keith Waldrop and read by guitarist, and newest member of the band, Daniel O’Sullivan, a final statement on the band’s thematic vision, one that’s less concerned with mainstream malfeasance and more intent on doing what they’ve always done — divinely flexing their learned, classical, and philosophical muscles.
Ritualistic doom from the five high priests of the Church of Ox, that being War Ox, Axe Ox, Myth Ox, Beast Ox, and Frost Ox, chosen to deliver Ox dogma — or the principles of Oxism — and to spread the great word of the Lord God Ox, may He be exalted.
No, I’m not kidding.
More than just a six-song online release, Abyssal Gigantism tells of the oxchatological order of things, and is at once a warning, a lesson, and a preparation for the coming judgment. Now, whether you choose to believe in the Ox gospel or fall prey to its mocking tenor matters little so long as you find occasion to worship the dopey, bluesy, alt-sludge through which this divination is delivered. With vocals both clean and aggressive, with a pace both lumbering and invading, with riffs as large as Mount Oxlympus itself, the songs on Abyssal Gigantism are extra heavy and ultra hallowed points of entry into a world ruled by all things Ox, but one that also owes its black, madcap measure to Electric Wizard, Saint Vitus, Candlemass, Black Sabbath, and, at points, early Soundgarden and Life of Agony. And perhaps inspired by the Lord God Ox, may He be exalted, or perhaps because they are forging this music on his behalf, God Ox have seen fit to elevate themselves from the mire of doom benevolence with intricate instances of mellow psych-jams, slide guitar, and progressive experimentation. A massive, diverse, and I suppose divine, creation, this God Ox.
Opeth
Ulver
God Ox