"Amarta: Formulas of Reptilian Unification, Part II"

By Octopi Mills

With some of the wildest rantings in any promotional text I have ever read, I pull up a chair and a horsewhip and know that it is dangerous to say such things as said in the promotional write up. The danger of claiming such individualism is manifold, and exotic, and I stand to oversee the affair entirely on this evening. 

This could only be of an alleged black metal ilk, and I find I am correct. In the introductory piece I see that someone has been practicing acoustic guitar on the way to a fight as the spoken words and unorthodox chanting comes in. Song titles seem to be someone studying the occult field; nonsense about "I am" and big words thrown around like a live eel into the pant legged minds of the onlooker. The drums boom around the left and right speakers and threaten the listener as the vocals growl around like tomcats in a sex brawl. They are met with another type of singing that is like some old weirdo bellowing chants from a man-cave. There are strings being played of course, and in a fashion like someone who owned an old Emperor album and learned to track guitars with rhythms overlaid with a lone,whining, high string that recalls the whole genre later in question. There are similar synths as I have aforementioned.

 The Greek influence cannot be disguised no matter how much black pepper or paprika you enflame on the grill marked, bun length wiener which could never be a wurst. In the same way you know it can never be a sausage of the Polish or Italian tradition, as it still carries seasonings of a Greek tragedy or possible drama, though this is speculative at best. There are moments of eerie atmosphere that are never likely achieved by the little strings but the synth and vocals. The singing is always done in the highest regard to energy and ferocity as if the occult is more than just a feeling to the fellow holding up his end of the bargain. There are unsettling moments where one may want to call up a friend for support but these may be rubbed out if one is strong at heart and doesn't believe in any of texts attributed to King Solomon. The tiny string is like a little serpent that returns with every song and marks the album. It is the overall heart of the music and drives the point home and breaks it off into the god damned ground. There is big talk here and done with bravado of sportsmen and it is here I'll leave well enough alone for now.