Vampire's black mud - French black metal and a swampy encounter

Fuck the French, they say. Bunch of braggart baguette surrender lemurs, they say. I must admit, there is a lot to criticize about the Frogs. Their language is perhaps the least metal sounding, a collection of effette tongue clucking on soft pallettes, not harsh and manly, like German, Norwegian, or English. But the French have struck back. There is a surprising number of diversity and quality of metal in France, totally in line with the European affinity. Today we sample from the black metal scene, which, until recently, was very underrated by the evil hordes.

Waylor is a mountainous land, full of hidden valleys and foggy mountaintops. The shady lowlands are teeming with strange wildlife, while the rocky peaks are home to mystics, madmen, barons and kings. On the highest peaks, the Waylorian masters have their fortresses and on the northernmost outcropping of the Gol range, the fearsome Baron Lotar holds court next to the mysterious Time Desert. Together with Vorthon the Whip of Fate, Hell Wraith, and Thantor the Bard, Lotar has traveled a day’s journey from his home at Keep Vorn on the way to Keep Trawston where they will meet Lady Steel, keeper of the Sludgetron, a magic object Hell Wraith seems particularly anxious to inspect. Their party has reached a particularly foreboding spot in the tarvo lowlands, an area between the outer reaches of Lotar’s lands and the Trawston plains. The marshy terrain has slowed down the reptilian theeba, upon whose backs the party has traveled since they left Thantor’s transport at Keep Vorn. The supine lizards, with their soft pearlescent scales and huge gripping claws make the perfect

beast of burden in this predominantly rocky area but the soft ground here offers no resistance to their talons. Looming in the distance is the black peak of Mount Tarvo, cursed gravestone of the titan Bloodhammer, father of Bloodmace and Demon Scourge. Thantor, Vorthon, and Hell Wraith have gone ahead to an island of sorts, formed of the knotted roots of the gnarled trees that grow in this fragrant marsh. Behind them, Baron Lotar and his servants trail along, stopping here and there to mark the areas they planned to annex to the lands of Keep Vorn. Across the hazy marsh the travelers can see the beginning of the dry, rocky land that leads to the base of Mount Tarvo. Smoke rises lazily from the makeshift chimney of a simple hut near the bank. “We should just go around” Thantor offers to Hell Wraith and Vorthon, “Can you imagine what a problem this is gonna be if laughing boy back there brings up the infantry with him?” Vorthon nods in agreement. The Whip of Fate looks sternly across the wetland and turns to his companions, “backtrack and try to lead Lotar around the hut, I must go alone.” Whirling around suddenly, the weird mystic disappears into a swirl of red mist.

First, we heard underground obscurities Bekhira with their only full release 'L'Elu Du Mal'. This is fairly standard, but fairly awesome, mid 1990's era black metal. All the ingredients are there: tremulous riffing, spooky keyboards, grim atmosphere, sounding nothing more than a slightly more epic version of Darkthrone or a more necro Satyricon. Its all well played and well recorded (for lo-fi) and worth a listen, but nothing really distinguishes it from any other corpse painted also-rans from the same era, except that they might be a bunch of fucking Nazis. Vichy scum!

When Vorthon stepped out from the red vapor on the other side of the marsh the first thing he noted about the structure in front of him was its unique construction. A thick moss covered the entire hovel, making it resemble a small hill with a chimney. Vorthon rounded the hut looking for an entrance and for the first time realized that he had been summoned, for he knew not what force brought him across the swamp or what he sought in this ramshackle dwelling. He quickly scanned the desolate area for the adept who sought his presence. From the edge of the marsh where he stood, the foot hills were a short distance away, “Curious,” Vorthon thinks to himself, “that one would put a house right out here in the open. So many good spots here.” Suddenly, Vorthon realizes his vulnerable position and backs up against the hut, but as he does the wall gives way. The gelatinous substance that envelops him as he falls backwards is nothing like the mossy wooden structure he leaned against seeking cover. Within seconds his whole body is inside the “wall.” Realizing his lungs will also fill with the strange goo, Vorthon uses his Waylorian magic to turn off his breathing. He feels as though he is falling, but not always down. The warm gel speeds past him in every direction until he feels a pair of hands on his shoulders and his head bobs to the surface. A blast of sound assaults his ears. Talking, crackling fire, open space. Vorthon turns on his breathing and the smell of food and sweat rushes into his nostrils as he inhales deeply the strange air. The tremendous, dim room he finds himself in is filled with Dwarven warriors, but all are engaged talking to one another or eating. One large fire burns in the center if the circular room, barely illuminating the area near the wall where he was pulled through. Turning, Vorthon is surprised to see the hands pulling him out of the mire belong to none other than the legendary Tolar the Mystic! “By the scourge and mace, walk youngster. By the Sauroped and their Wyvern masters, you will speak!” He waves his hand and Vorthon is frozen, but compelled to speak, “Bloodmace sent me.” Vorthon intones in a voice not his own.

"The nebulae in the superior sky howled like a starving hound"But next came an absolute masterpiece. Deathspell Omega's 2010 opus, Paracletus. This is blackened jazz, an album so thick with poisonous atmosphere, mind swelling composition, lightening musicianship; an album so obscure, so sideways, so fucking righteous, that Demon Scourge and I shit our intestines twice and light our asses on fire. This is high art worth of the Loueve. This is the band that Tool always tried to be but were pussies. This is a triumphant accomplishment. This is also just another album for these baguette eaters, because every album they have put out in the pastis equally a amazing. Winner!!!

Next came the absolute worst black metal recording I have ever heard and definitely the worst thing we have heard at Metal Night. Vlad Tepes is one of the most influential bands in French black Metal, but I cannot see why, unless the severe shit quality of their recording is somehow necro. Imagine a bunch of 12 year olds in corpse paint hacking out their first barely cogent riffs in a dank basement, then go to the attic of the same building and turn on the tape recorder and that is what the La Morte Lune demo is. We endured this for a half an hour. They might not have been too bad if it had been recorded better. Could not tell either way.

The voice of the Goddess is always hidden within an echo. The hard surfaces reflect truths unhallowed and knowledge unread. This is the essence of Waylor and its folk. Hear the butte and gorge when they speak their desolate litany! Hear the silent dwellers at the gates of twilight! This is the part of Centon not visited by intergalactic religious tourists, the forgotten region. Shunned by the elder council and left to its own governance this patchwork of feudal lords, technologically advanced communes, and bold tyrants formed a cultural hothouse for weird religions and new forms of magic. Hail to the gods of our fathers, the elder ones whose sleep allowed for the growth of reason and whose waking will mark its end! What was once shall be again!

Until next week wolfpack,

Horns