The roiling world of chaotic, experimental black metal, loaded with samples, atmosphere and evil all backed by an ambiance torn straight from the devil’s liver is full of apostates. Ryan Page (ex-Ouroboros/Rites Of Thy Degringolade), better known by his stage name, Angelfukk Witchhammer, is not one of them. He’s a champion of the cause. Renouncing religion doesn’t even scratch the surface of his dedication to Luciferian black metal. Angelfukk Witchhammer is a deity on a quest to satanic enlightenment and you’re all invited along on the ride should you have a stockpile of chemicals, blood and, of course, a passport to the hellish realms of fantasy where this ex-inmate of Canadian detention centers is willing to be your tour guide.
“Purge and reap the conscious cage of need and want. Of fleshly desires. Dimethyltryptmine rituals. Bring forth the key” screams Angelfukk Witchhammer in the fourth track, “The Perpetual Dance of Existence and Demise.” It’s not rhetoric. It’s not posture. We’re talking about music that is l-i-t-e-r-a-l-l-y meant to mess with your consciousness. Meant to accompany a trip into the unknown. Meant to bring forth terrors unknown in sober states. Even the opening of the album with samples for “Baptized in the Blood of Galaxies” or the samples which end that track are unsettling. Placing samples in both the front and back may seem mundane, but they serve to link the album to its other pieces. Thus, Hostis Universi Generis can play on a deathless cycle.
Even without the use of Dimethyltryptmine, A.M.S.G.’s music is enough to raise the hair on your neck and require the packing of an extra pair of knickers. “The Perpetual Dance of Existence and Demise” carries on for eleven minutes flat. While there is plenty of thematic repetition and lead lines which follow logical progression, the entire tune is off-kilter. Not hummable but communicable nonetheless—forcing the mind into that in between state of fear and anxiety. As the track builds, the vocals take on unhuman affectations. From layered, to filtered to screamed from a tiled room in the distance while drums blast away, the ambiance here is fear.
Bands like Minsk and Akhlys attempt to create a world in which their music is the soundscape to terror. Those bands seek alternate levels of consciousness. While both are largely successful, neither come close to the universe in which A.M.S.G. inhabits. For starters, those altered states are naturally altered, by chemicals found within the body. A.M.S.G. is talking about drug altered states. Times of consciousness so altered that it barely exists. Think of the Third Revelation in which the Spirit interprets the word of God. Well, A.M.S.G. is the spirit and Satan is the God.
Take, the over fourteen-minute closing track “Astral Projections of Lucifer” on which Angelfukk Witchhammer proclaims:
I seek to shed this earthly shell and resurrect as flames of the black light. Observe the devotion of the scorched realms within, having ingested the spirit of shadows. The darkness of the kingdom of hell, I have perished and resurrected as black dragon. Faultless emissary of gnosis, living sanctuary of the black flame, vanquisher of life itself.
The track is the slowest, building itself to a climactic orgasm of cosmic putrefaction. After an extended spoken word patch, a saxophone heralds the coming of the ghost. The vocals deepen to accompany the more expansive guitar work as the drums move to haunting cymbal work. For all its length, the track is thick and sticky with a milieu of rhythm changes. By the eleventh minute the vocals move into full tilt as the blast beats begin to become more frequent. It’s a hallmark of Page’s composition—his tracks are always moving forward and always building in their intensity, albeit often subtly.
Subscribe to this chvrch of blasphemy. Open the doors to your mind and allow Angelfukk Witchhammer to burrow deep into your brain with his layered vocals and harsh critiques of regular society. Glare into the satanic malaise of the cover art (provided by Jef Whitehead) as inorganic chemicals slowly drip into your brain. Allow the cleverly inserted saxophones, Didgeridoo sounding synthesizers and gongs to baptize your sickening existence and draw you deeper into the pits of the hellish existence that is your own prison.