"Varcolaci Rising"

by Octopi Mills

I found myself returning to this band's albums and music too often to be ignored within the past few months.I came home from working all week in the scorching Arkansas heat to think, wow, here I am worried about the downfall of all mankind and society lately and here is some guy from Australia worried about concepts like astral vampyres created from women spinning threads in the moonlight or dark of night. Here we have a fellow, who, after a successful album which I reviewed, cares not for progression or production values. This is old school black metal that worships the demo stage and never leaves the best qualities of such- that stage where man knows there is no better thing than the analog or the first few moments that make men great, yet he stays there. The man is serious and a stark outsider by this point; new strings that string new things from old webs anew and novel- cheap keyboards that work weaves in the whole affair and make one think he is hearing something old and new at the same time. Vocals that care less what age we are currently in and it all reminds me of an antique store where dust is more important than your current trends or stupid fashions and if you mention certain things you will be banned from Youtube for fighting against the this I will hush so I am not banished myself... The man means business.

 Here we have an album. All tracks weave a web and the ugly spider is never quite seen as you are led through a labyrinth of music that only someone who is completely isolated in a love of nostalgia could ever compose. Walled in and insane, left alone and howling at a moon that might not even be real, this music is something to be praised by the loner or lover of the night and of anything real metal could ever offer in the blackened, scorned sense of what once we believed to be reality. As a football game goes on and thousands watch, somewhere there is a man in a cape and tattered paint living out a Edgar Allan Poe poem no one read or someone discovers a painting that was molded and never viewed- this is the dripping candle of real artistry lying in a dark pool of end before us all now, if only we could hear it.

Here I am nearly dead of a heat stroke and I hear a guy on some island playing his passion to possibly a pack of rats or old furry bats who own no cell phones or wireless connections to any sort of a world but that of darkness and the darker side of the natural world.If everyone played what was in their heart it would not sound like this, but they would be on their way to somewhere- anywhere but where we are in this broken decay of a lost paradise we never should have fumbled away. The real thing comes across and it is ruined  and made magic in what was lost. It would almost be like the old TV show Night Gallery if Rod Serling was really insane- the nostalgia, but only this guy never had such status and doesn't want to be that cool. Highly recommended after a year of things that never mattered.