Last Rites has been accused of metal snobbery in the past, so some may question the logic behind agreeing to review a record that appears to have willfully painted a target the size of Brooklyn on its forehead. Why bother? For a similar reason one might agree to lose an hour and forty five minutes to Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, or when you succumb to the sadistic temptation of a Krispy Kreme Donut Dog with bacon bits. As humans, we like to be challenged, and that includes occasionally walking hand-in-hand with things that might be considered disagreeable.
The payoff, if it could be summed up into only two tidy outcomes: 1) sometimes you walk away pleasantly surprised and with a newfound respect, or 2) the masochistic leech that lives on our cerebellum gets his wittle bewwy scwatched.
The surprising thing with regard to The Ark Work is that now that Liturgy has apparently decided to shelve their trashamdental bleck martal roots, some genuinely compelling ideas finally get a chance to bubble to the surface. The playful key-horns that open the record and swing back into the spotlight throughout “Kel Valhaal” are addictive in an odd “breaking NBC Nightly News with Tom Brokaw” kind of way, and the record’s emphasis on heaps of other midi keyboard electronics from beginning to end is interesting – the dark and appealing opening to “Follow II,” for example, and the full duration of the brooding “Haelegen” as it drifts directly into the next cut on the list.
But by and large, The Ark Work is a contentious, grossly obnoxious record that deliberately smothers whatever allure it manages to conjure with an epic dose of jarring, tiresomely repetitive clamor that’s shot to the moon with Triple H’s monotone moan. The vast majority of these 57 minutes are spent pedal to the metal, but with layers upon layers upon layers of hurtling bedlam, screechy tremolo picking, ripping percussion, bagpipe triple penetration, clanking railroad bells, taser attacks, high-powered impact wrenches, moose rebel yells, kitchen sinks, stubborn jackhammers, geese in the midst of deadly heart attacks, and whatever the hell else you might think of that could add to a whirling dervish of an aural panic attack. Stuff it all through an extravagant MacBook filtermabobber and it ends up coming across less Gorgoroth and more like a violently spasmodic video game glitch where a convulsive Mario discovers an endless loop for coin collecting, cranked to 11.
As odd as it may sound, however, all the noise behind The Ark Work might at least be interesting if Hendrix’s vocals weren’t such an eye-explodingly annoying accompaniment. Ever wondered what the robot lovechild of Billy Corgan and Les Claypool sounds like? Welcome to paradise. I suppose Fran Drescher wasn’t available, otherwise they could’ve dragged her maddening pipes into the studio and stood on her foot for forty five minutes.
Fancy a little tipple? How about “Vitriol,” a caterwauling rap tune that could clear out an American Apparel on Free Quilted Flannel Hat Day.
“Soon jehova will part the waters
Soon the delicacies will be sprinkled with sea salt
Soon the media will try to be honest
Soon religions will love one another”
That’s some “Do’s Final Exit” level material right there.
Of course, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Of course. And in that regard, I suppose The Ark Work is the musical equivalent of natto: People say they like it, but it’s stringy, slimy, pungent, fermented soybeans, for fuck’s sake, and it’s supposed to be terrible. But oh wait… Am I starting to like it? Like when you accidentally sit on part of your sack on the train and the pain feels strangely GREAT. Or the sufferingly delightful sensation after squeezing lime juice on a wicked hangnail? Oh sweet, sweet malaise.
The Ark Work: The sort of record Karl Lagerfeld would file under Black Metal, but perhaps it’s best lumped under Fermented Soybeans.
