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KRVNA “For Thine is the Kingdom of the Flesh”
KRVNA “For Thine is the Kingdom of the Flesh”
By Octopi Mills
There is a curious thing about this album. Each song is seven minutes and some change. Working in these seven minutes, the main fellow here attempts a stake at better produced black metal, and within the work ethic of this time frame he succeeds in many ways; he can play the instruments, capture a sound that would please modern and older production senses to some extent, etc...etc.
But where does it go beyond being a good musician and keeping a long flaming tradition kept by legions of others that leap like Goetic demons from that old grimoire? In this sense it does well, keeping up with the frog demon with bat wings and a rooster's comb; it swims with the fish headed one with the proboscis that defies its creation....it is a cousin to the mishmash of pig, bear, owl and man.... but it is not nearly that interesting as I have made it sound. It doesn't have that sort of identity or novelty in its own right and just towers around like some bull-headed idol of yore around the old ruins of that which they all haunt, attempting to usurp the old throne.
There is a haunting acoustic guitar passage and some guitar work that is signature in a relative sense. I won't throw around big words or chairs because they don't come to the proper summons. I see reds, oranges, yellows...flame tones...motes of this and greys, blacks, and such...and in this it does something else, surely- surely it does something? I blindfold myself and make an attempt to find these sorts of things, and there are things I unfound, making me wonder what it would sound like in a deprivation tank with saline waters. I wonder if it were recorded on an old burned-out Tascam four track if I would appreciate it more, and, wonder other things. If it were cloaked in some sort of layer of production fog, whether a swirl or a misty rainy layer on a separate track- would I write a different write up then? If the whole thing were recorded in a cave with background ambience, would I appreciate it more? What if Billy Anderson ran his corn chip powdered feelers up and down the sliders- would I be satisfied?
If an ape was given chemicals from a laboratory in funding by the Central Intelligence Agency and handed a fully loaded Marshall cabinet with the casing redone in English walnut and stained with a finish in the blood of Occulta Mors from MOONBLOOD, would that make me happy? What have I myself done today that an ape can't do , as a late contemporary asked me regularly? It's these sorts of things that we can go on about into the late hours of the night and the call of dewy dawn.
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