You all, everybody
You all, everybody
Lost was a television show. Lost was a television show that was enjoyed by millions of people. Maybe you hated Lost, because metal fans love to hate what the masses enjoy, but nonetheless, Lost was a show that was very popular amongst television viewers for quite some time.
One of the principle reasons Lost was popular—apart from the fact that its dominant motivity was mystery-based, and human beings can’t resist a good mystery—was because it managed to tap into one of our favorite pipe dreams: Getting dumped on a deserted island away from shitty, shitty realism. Life is a swift kick to the carpet, so we love thinking about being stranded on an uncharted island (amidst whatever records, books, movies and food we clearly earmarked in advance) with no choice but to start over with a very simplified game-plan. Food, water, shelter, survival and five Iron Maiden albums, baby.
Lost also worked because it added the necessary “uncertainty” component that fantasies about being marooned obligate. Humans love an element of unpredictability, even if it involves danger. That’s why we do krokodil, sign up for missions to Mars, and leap off bridges with elastic strings tied to our ankle. Connectedly, if you think getting plunked onto some forgotten island would involve little else than Caipirinhas, hammocks and boffing on the beach to Phil Collins, you’re in for a rude awakening, short-pants. There will be polar bears (albino de Isla del Misterio!), smoke beasts, and, as evidenced by several other mysterious islands throughout history, giant apes, prehistoric lizards, furious yokels, violent volcanos, deranged doctors, tiny people who want to tether you to the ground and blind you, and all manner of other oddities to add a necessary kick into the Sweet Spice of Life.
Lugubrum is the music of islands. The ludicrous islands. 30% beauty, 70% “what the hell did I just experience.” People often place them in a black metal box, but walking headfirst into anything this band has done—particularly within the last decade—and expecting some level of ski-masked atmospheric tremolo-riffed rituals tendered to a Luciferian tormentor in the cosmos would be like walking into an Office Depot and expecting hand release from Joaquin Phoenix in a Russel Crowe costume. Not completely out of the question, but unlikely.
Who’s your Benjamin Linus, sailor? You think your life sucks? Did your dad ever throw you from a 20-story window and put your sorry ass into a dagblanged wheelchair? ALL THREE OF THE GUYS IN LUGUBRUM HAVE BEEN SHOVED OUT OF A 20-STORY WINDOW AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE.
Is Wakar Cartel heavy, mon? Not really, yes. It’s flittery, hot, primordial, exotic, alluring and subject to immediate and violent shifts in temperament. 2015’s blustery Herval had a bit more of a rocksteady climate, but it’s still here, thanks to all deh wah-wah goodness ov “Orakelsnoer.” Sit down and relax, brother! You recognize that son-of-a-bitch who’s currently elbow-deep into your mango stash? They were shooting dixies of alprazolam next to you in the mental insteetooshon! You see that carrot standing over there to the right, don’t you? Please tell me you see the carrot. This heat, brother.
the fire of the master
I poke with a carrot
in the smoldering ashes
I’m leaving my water
on the remains of my enemies
currents of Kodinese
in the rising vapor
I imagine myself in-between
comrades of yore
That’s “Het Vuur van de Meester!” Probably! I mean, it is, but I’m not sure if that’s the on-the-carrot translation. The Fire of the Master. It’s got the strut, strumph and metal heart you need to build that hut. And the calm, ghostly stretch of melancholic noir in the midden geeft je een pauze.
How much have you had to drink today, Jack? Why would you ever want to leave?
in the midnight darkness
between the dogs
while they dig for bones
I make a fool of myself
from a root?
“Tussen Honden.” Floaty start. Breezy. Like the beach at night. Sand fleas bite, though, and so does this cut! A little. You stick around long enough and people start to bark. I’ll trade you this terrific edition of Skymall for five minutes with that knife, sir. Have you ever tried to gut a fish with an old ashtray lid from a busted armrest? Not easy, my friend. There’s an article about New Orleans bartending in herrrrrrrrre.
Midgaars – vocals, guitar, Wurlitzer piano, trumpet, glockenspiel, claves, gong
Svein – drums
Noctiz – bass
Joshua Dellaert – double bass
Joris Focquaert – trombone
David Huylebroeck – percussion
Thomas Rommel – baritone sax
Sleppe – spoken word
You hated that ending, didn’t you. Was it too religious? I don’t really remember. We always hate the way the story ends. The great ape dies, the hunter becomes the hunted, and it was all just a dream anyway. Not easy to hate “De zoete geur van de Meester,” though. Apart from the fact that it arrives too quickly. Love it because it’s the sweet smell of the master, and everyone loves sweet smells. Can you smell the curling smoke of that Wurlitzer? Horns up! Brass horns. Maybe you would hate it. I’m not the boss of you. You can hate whatever the hell you want to hate out here. You’ll probably want to come back, though. We always want to come back. Especially if we fight like hell to leave.
4. Meester van een Wortel (Intro) [3:29]
8. Het Vuur van de Meester [5:07]
15. Tussen Honden [7:43]
16. Orakelsnoer [6:48]
23. De zoete geur van de Meester [8:28]
Listened to during the campfire’s peak after filling your belly full of Lilliputian champignons and you will discover the answer to the ultimate question of life, the Universe, and Everything.