by Octopi Mills

Estonia is the place where this music comes from and I am instantly put in a place of panic upon hearing this...It whirls around too early, folkish, then maddening into thrashing metal and I am spun around, and I suddenly realize I know nothing of Estonia or what is going on around feels as if there is an attack upon me by way of woodwinds of some kind, and I study and learn Estonia had a Viking age, which leaves me feeling like a fat friar who is being assaulted by strong foreigners from a ship suddenly, and without warning. I feel a particular discomfort from the vocalist, who ravages my mind with his weapon, which is like sharp iron to soft, flesh like cabbage It all happens so fast, like in a Robert E. Howard tale, and I am cut down like one of his lesser men amongst the savagery of a chieftain Pict, if you would.

 I begin to hate Estonia early on, and realize it is not right at all, after all, and find myself pointing at their funny beards and over the top chanting choruses, as if there was some joke taking place. If this were American or English, or even Scandinavian I would have a better time against such strange foes, but not against these Estonians who challenge my survival skills of the psychological means with this album, though i know I am brought low, and caught like a man in a deportation center in a bad dream. Folk thrash is all i can mutter as they haul me off to be sent back home, babbling about how the promo shot of the blonde fellow looks like he might use some beard wizard device made so by later technological advances than could be afforded by true raiders. The monastery, which is highly emblematic of my mind, is aflame and in ruins, and I, the fat friar, lay slain like a toad upon the road of exploration; as if everything i knew, or thought i knew has been squashed by the exotic sound of this band of marauders. If there are sailors in the seas tonight, steer clear of unknown lands....