There exists an occasionally silent and almost always deadly killer among us at any given moment with the potential to soil our greatest triumphs just as effortlessly as it has the capacity for heroism during those most awkward occasions. The astronauts of Apollo 16 famously spoke of it at length during our tenth trip to the moon, thereby guaranteeing at least another century of repudiation from extra terrestrial lifeforms mindful of our “progression”; it sparked a revolt in ancient Egypt that eventually led to King Apries being torn apart by an angry mob; it rears its ugly head in the fifth pocket of Malebolge in Dante’s Inferno; and even Ben Franklin, in an effort to inspire science to modify its unfavorable nuances, famously penned an unpublished article entitled, “Fart Proudly.”
How can you tell if someone is vegan? Their rear will tell you… Again, and again, and again… On a crowded train… With them standing right next to you… Making direct eye contact.
January 7th is National Pass Gas Day.
Air biscuits are the very first indicator that your relationship isn’t quite as magical as you thought it was three weeks ago when it first whipped into existence and saved your life from a swirling maelstrom of perpetual misery. “This enchanted unicorn gifted to me by the gods just flagrantly (and fragrantly) ripped one right in front of me that sounded like a 30 year old lawn mower. Is he going to leave the door open when he poops now?”
Unless you’re alone, or approximately 8 years old, or an attention-starved masochist with a long and literal track record in his underpants, we humans typically endeavor to stifle our bottom burps. Why? Because we are civilized, decent souls that aim to eclipse those creatures that blast without discretion, and despite having a morbid curiosity about all things that stink, we generally do not strive to stink, because we are a very social animal that’s possessed with the hope to appear idealistic. Can’t keep it rosy, brosy? Smell ya later.
Wait… What’s that smell? Oh, hey, Lugubrum has a new album out. Let’s pretend that’s completely unrelated to all the above.
Actually, maybe it’s sort of related, because “Lugubrum” is an old Flemmish term that roughly translates into “barn wind.”
Yes, Lugubrum has a new album out, and it’s black metal! You remember black metal—the Devil’s vapor, and the very same offshoot responsible for birthing untold evil, arsonists, “traditionalists,” visionaries and trendy hippies, which marks it not only as the most controversial branch of Yggdrasill, but also its most super serious. No Mosh, No Core, No Trends (whoops), No Stepping On Ducks.
Actually, maybe the news of Lugubrum’s return is extremely related to the intro, but in an unexpectedly inverse kind of way. More so than anything else, Lugubrum has always been the voice of the inappropriate, and also for those who are very much not at all possessed with the desire to appear idealistic. Lugubrum is the pubic toupee left around the laundromat dryer lid of life. They are the wind beneath a terrifically out-of-shape angel’s wings.
Lo, dost thou hear the seven trumpets?
“And as they did eat, he said, ‘verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me. And I shall mark thine betrayal by virtue of thoust being the one who first denied it, and therefore the one who didst clearly supply it.’” ~ Matthew (McConaughey)
Okay, come to think of it, this isn’t actually black metal. There is, however, at least one very distinct bottom blast featured on every song on this recording. Has that been mentioned yet? Nevertheless, black metal is a very serious business, and there is absolutely no trouser coughing allowed in a serious place of business. Unless, of course, it’s done noiselessly with one cheek slyly lifted, which was the case for records like Gorgoroth’s Pentagram and Alan Cest’s Trumbetta de lune. Therefore, Bruyne kroon (Brown Crown) is definitely not a black metal record. Additionally, the members of Lugubrum are Mennonites, which is an Analbaptist denomination that is strictly verboten in the black metal arts.
What we have here, ladies and gentleblats, is the elegant continuation of Lugubrum’s fifth studio album, 2001’s Bruyne troon (Brown Throne), an album that featured loose stools and a veering from the band’s early ode to the 2nd wind of black metal into something a little more sour and boersk. Bruyne troon was once famously described as being “…like a Kreator demo recorded nude in a blizzard,” and similarly, kroon sounds as naked and raw as a carrot stripped and left in the snow to trap an unsuspecting bunny. Don’t blow it, bunny—we haven’t eaten meat since September, and you guys are known to keep a treasure trove of hamburger in your lair during the winter months.
Amidst all the egg salad sandwich blasts, vigorous spider barks, quacks, gurgles and spitters, Bruyne kroon once again flashes all the unacceptable trombone attacks, sneaky progressive toilet rock, surfers hanging eleven, Gargamel finally gorging on Smurf giblets, beef-cracking hilljack boogies, and abyssal banjo rites we’ve come to expect from these horse apple goblins.
Is it wise to have a song on your record that finds a way to expose listeners to something largely unchartered concerning our planet’s most incorrigible fuckface, Shitler? No, of course not. But “Barbarossa” is centered around a confrontation that ended in one of the Wehrmacht’s most momentous defeats, and its alternative purpose is to underscore the schadenfreudian truth that Adolf was reportedly firing up to 150 (strychnine-loaded) anti-fart pills into his execrable gullet per fucking week in hopes of stemming his very real and apparently belligerent flatulence. Lugubrum has always opted to position deplorable and / or abnormal truths in front of the headlights in order to run them down in a packed clown car.
Hey now, wait a darn-tootin’ minute… There’s a really pretty part on this album! In “Kleipaal!” A guitar solo! A long, melodic guitar solo that drifts up from the sewers of Gehenna like a softening breeze spittered forth from the forever meandering bowels of Malmsteen. Thankfully, the rest of the song mostly sounds like a silverware drawer pitched down an old escalator.
The album closer revisits a regrettable video once highlighted by the great Freddie Gibbs (prior to his unsportsmanlike barring from instagram) that features a soundbite of a person loaded on bath salts pooping and tinkling on top of some fellow’s car. It wouldn’t be a Lugubrum album without a significantly unseemly period on the end of the sentence.
As is so often the case, the conclusion of a Lugubrum album largely inspires the listener to feel as if they’re barely afloat in the bowl with sentiments of confusion, guilt and orificial havoc continually attempting to dunk them. It’s nice to hear the return of the boersk metal to the sour formula, and it’s quite evident that Bruyne kroon has once again found the band mastering ways to suit themselves only to highly demented individuals who like the idea of being transported to a tuneful tropical island vacation variant of extreme metal that ends in cannibalism. Gas, ass, or grass, no one rides for free.
“There’s only one band like Lugubrum, so it’s very easy to avoid us.” ~ Midgaars