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WYRD


WYRD 

"Death of the Sun"

By Octopi Mills

The album starts off with ringing pagan metal that has the old, high treble sound that my uncle once referred to as that "waspers in a bucket" sound before the acoustic wanderings of "Man of Still Waters", which turns into a good listen, having some sort of proud chorus that might sound like a Scandinavian fisherman with ghastly tackle. The third song endorses a power metal sort of feel in parts, like Iron Maiden nearly.  "Pale Departure" has dark acoustics and messes around with creepy singing, with the feel of some old rotting cabin leased out to some Finnish weirdo. 

There are some kind of keys in "The Pale Hours" that play house with folk stuff and it makes me want to stuff a biscuit with berry sauce into my pie hole this morning, but offers little more than pagan metal to write home to grandfather about, who is long dead in his grave and would roll over if he heard this. Percussion is back-lighting but stands out at times, though never like a warm sun in a Bob Ross painting, and this is perhaps the key to the affair; the blending. "Inside" sounds weird as hell compared to the rest so far, having a vocal approach that sounds like hybrid Bruce Dickinson at sea; as if I have heard it from some powerful crooner before, but I cannot rightly recall where, or which ones. 

The band photo makes more sense when considering the vocal approaches, and one must respect the decision a man makes when donning some old cape or cloak in this day and age. "Where Spirits Walk The Earth" sounds serious enough, and some might fall in love or divorce their wives over this thin atmosphere that steals upon them like a light and chill lake breeze, making one walk off from their jobs and into the waters to join the mysteries of fish. Does it have that power yet, one might ask? No, perhaps only in loose thoughts and prose, but someday maybe.... Perhaps, one day, when sunken places rise and the waters give up their secrets, man will don capes and cloaks again as safe guard against the wet chill of these places spoken thus far only in the pocket change of a few collective poets, or in the failed profession of the thespian who seeks to imitate what he cannot reach; a select few who have stared into the eyes of the bullfrog or the lonely heron and her secret places fished on secret mornings when the sun dares to again rise. Man would do well to remember the sleeping ones, who also dream, and to know fear of them again.


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