“We must use time as a tool, not a couch.” – John “What the” F. Kennedy
The above quote is relevant to Ótta for a couple reasons. First, as some of you are likely already aware, the principle motif behind album number five from these somber Icelanders is based on an antique (and more loose) method of observing time that splits a single day into eight segments of approximately three hours each: Eykt.
As such, Ótta drifts from the gate in the quiet, soft, early (or very late, depending on your perspective) hours, gets fired-the-Hell up by afternoon (particularly the heated “Nón”), and closes out with a long stretch that collects all the day’s assorted distinctions into a swirling menagerie that eventually falls to a restful end. In this regard, Ótta continues to exhibit the quintessential ebb & flow/peaceful-to-noisy elements generally associated with the “post-” tag, but does so notably well across its full expanse, as opposed to just song by song. This is good news for those looking for a more readily digestible work than the band’s previous 2011 two-disc epic stretch, Svartir Sandar.
Secondly, and more importantly, the lads behind Sólstafir have unquestionably kept the couch-slouching and stagnation to a minimum, using time wisely and allowing life’s Grand Leveler to re-shape the framework into something that remains undoubtedly “Sólstafir,” but with the polished edge of a cragged stone worn smooth and valuable by age and the elements. I suppose that’s just a flowery way of saying Ótta continues to bend the oars further away from heavier, blackened waters, but when the riffs are weighty—and yes, there are moments of heaviness during this trip—there’s a palpable sludgy, Neurosis dirge-like component that suitably off-sets the album’s extensive emphasis on velvety, drifting atmosphere.
But yes, it’s definitely a softer affair, with bits of stringed orchestration, an abundance of piano, some organ, and even a perfectly placed banjo trotting alongside the somber strut of the album’s stunning title cut. It’s less dense and less raw, but it’s gloomier, and more emotionally depleting—a funereal Frankenstein’s monster pieced together with limbs from Fields of the Nephilim, The Chameleons and bits of Primordial, but without coming across as any one of them at any given point. It’s… Sólstafir’s monster. He’s towering, he’s emotional, he’s bummed-the-hell out, and I can’t understand a single goddamn word he’s saying. But I love having him around, because he’s also comforting, cathartic, and self-sacrificing enough that he’d probably pitch himself into a lake long before he’d ever toss some innocent little girl to a murky, drowned death.
Thanks for being monsterly, epic, dismal and truly unique, Sólstastein. Or Frankenfir. Or whatever your name is. And don’t be afraid to call on your friends if the villagers turn on you and storm the walls with pitchforks and torches just because you don’t fit into some tidy design they think you should follow. Most villagers don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground anyway.
Bottom line: It’s time to get Sólstafir’s Ótta into your rotation.