"The Dark Emperor ov the Shadow Realm"

by Octopi Mills

One of the things when doing these reviews here that is to be met with deep condolence and compassion is when one must pass judgement on the works of another in a baleful and scornful manner, though it must be done in a manner that is with some conviction and autocracy with fair execution for the crimes committed upon the minds and souls of their fellow men. It is in this manner that I will begin to now continue in these motions set upon me.

 From central Texas they have duly conspired, and immediately into the song collection, there is no mistaking this is an American black metal experience inspired by, and thus channeling  Norwegian black metal, though the sound and force could have been said to have been made in America in 1998, if one can divest this; and one certainly can, into finite and morbid pastures. This is black metal with no danger or strong spirit, and it is not the alleged 8 track mentioned in the promotional mumblings that is to blame, neither as much as their upbringing or their home soil. There is an artifice of old school metal present, but filtered  of darkness and atmosphere, and like a wandering spirit with no face or purpose, one who loafs by long enough to cause pseudo memories of quasi truths. No new or refurbished antiquities are realized, and the strings go through boring motions and sport sex with themselves, the other instruments finding due enough course together in a tried and true motion, lifelessly animated in their hollow vanities of composition and conformity. The instruments play footsy with each other under tables once sat at by symphonic black metal of later decomposition, like the girl at a funeral who can't keep her skirt intact, and moral wrong comes to the front in a land where there should be none save taste. The medieval metallic sounding passages seduce one into a false sense of security and fool around like heat lights, making one believe he has been sucked into some place once felt at another time, and it is vampiric in this sense. By this I mean, that if it were an ale at a tavern, it would be light brew with mostly a head of foam, and that it would be served by a pseudo goth  who would have great praise for early Dimmu Borgir or Cradle of Filth albums, claiming a heritage to the drinker, who might meet this feeling with mediocre passion, or with nerd like rantings of like experiences.  Listen to Moonblood, I say.