[Cover artwork by Anne K. O’Neill]
—The sounds of a heaving ocean joined by the familiar creak of a gnarled ship // An ol’ sea dog barely lit by a weary lantern flame recounts a recent incident—
There I were, minding me own business, willfully relenting to the pitiless power of a Defeated Sanity discography whose sole purpose it is to flatten all obstacles (un)fortunate enough to suffer before it, when a chance encounter with Mother of Light abruptly inflicted an entirely polar, yet no less flattening form of power upon me surly, jaded spirit. Lads, the Siren waits thee, singing song for song…
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Power plays a massive role in why so many of us choose to wander this strange little metal sphere of ours—power capable of crushing, withering, damning, dooming, carousing, inspiring, or any combination therein. With Serpentent, a largely folk-centric Seattle project orchestrated by multi-instrumentalist Anne K. O’Neill, a unique form of power is rendered that’s equal parts visceral, leveling and graceful, and it’s conveyed using a notably poetic and meditative approach that drives straight to the marrow. There is a specific sirenic strength to O’Neill’s stunning voice, recalling artists such as Lisa Gerrard / Dead Can Dance or Kate Bush, both of whom have spent decades flattening souls with intensely emotional vocal performances mantled by heart-crushing songwriting where the narrative is as critical as the melody itself. O’Neill’s voice is similarly extraordinary, and her knack for exploring and fusing folk styles spanning European, neofolk and dark / fœry folk with steady doses of post-industrial is nothing short of stunning inside this captivating hour-long journey.
The record kicks off on a notably elegant note with the opening instrumental “The Descent” and the ensuing “Ancient Tomes,” both of which offer a gray and haunting form of gloomy folk that’s as floating and fluid as a ghost on the sea. An opening such as this sets the stage perfectly, showcasing a deceptively simple composition style on the surface, but that always manages to fold in some form of engaging ornamentation to ensure the songs maintain a steady grip—perfectly placed deep drum kicks, memorable piano licks, or any number of added guest spots that include Lorraine Rath (Worm Ouroboros) on flute and Charles Edward “Kakophonix” Brown on cello. “Ancient Tomes” in particular is an absolute gutter, gently guiding the listener to the earth before O’Neill’s extraordinary voice buries you in a deep, luxuriant peat.
The two subsequent cuts continue to underscore a very pleasant doomy / gloomy atmosphere, but O’Neill’s flare for neofolk elements such as animated martial percussion, perfectly blended electronics, and soundbites from a bygone era jump to the forefront, giving this portion of the record a strong sense of the work a label like Cold Meat Industry regularly delivered in the early ‘90s. “Winding” is a bit more spirited, establishing a persistent strut trimmed with a very snazzy, repeating bass lick, and “Ein Sonett An Orpheus: IV” offers a beautifully epic affair (sung entirely in German) that’s solemn as a tomb during the first five minutes, and wonderfully sprawling with an almost western feel to the guitars in its back half. Poet Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus holds a clear influence here, and the song pays further tribute to the man by kicking off with a spoken word recording of his poem The Panther, which, even in its translation (via frequent collaborator Stephen Mitchell) manages to punch straight to the heart.
“His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly–. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.”
The second half of the album is punctuated by an old Ukrainian folk interlude—“Oh, You Are the Moon,” performed by the Mutyn Village Women Folk Choir, but with some updated studio modifications to help match the record’s solemn mood. “Death” follows, offering a curiously uplifting melody (side note: the opening guitar tone nearly matches “The Last in Line,” which is always a blessing) that once again stresses post-industrial elements, as well as the crushing lyric “Wider eyes won’t see more clear / Or keep the scythe from drawing near,” and the ensuing title track delivers an absolute gut-punch that melds plaintive piano, cello and wonderfully funereal violin, with O’Neill’s beautifully consoling voice fittingly taking center stage. “Mother of Light” in particular conjures a notably gothic and sepulchral face, and I freely admit to being damn-near brought to my knees upon hearing just that wistful piano and O’Neill’s voice intoning “Mother of light… Your torch has died / What are we to do… Without you.” Having lost my own dear mum only this year, I feel a very strong connection to this record’s overarching themes of death and loss, and most notably the acceptance of both, including the very unique spectre of absence that now frequents the shadows of my everyday life.
With “The Fountainhead of Fire,” we get a comprehensive picture of most all of the record’s governing motifs. Delicate fretplay reminiscent of classic Agalloch delivers an unmistakable Autumnal feel to the song’s outset, coupled soon after by hints of neofolk and post-industrial before the first and only heavy (in a metal sense) measure delivers a decisive blow close to its midpoint. The sudden heft is dramatic, without question, and it stretches comfortably and doomily until around the 7:20 mark when a quieter, slightly psychedelic measure eventually drifts things back to the elegant fretwork heard at the outset. Again, O’Neill’s voice is nothing short of remarkable—a thoroughly curative blend of elegance and force, with just a touch of sorcery to weld an unmistakable allure to most every corner.
And finally, “Rise & Fall” closes out the record—a rousing, dramatic epilogue O’Neill penned as an ode to her grandfather following his passing that, per a recent interview at Invisible Oranges, serves as “a means to reflect, process, and express gratitude for him.” It’s a perfect closer, and it furthermore functions as a reminder that death’s shadow need not be exclusively morbid. There is beauty in death, and certainly in its release, as well as a strange comfort in understanding that it remains the one thing in life that truly connects us all.
Overly effusive and long-winded praise can be nauseating, I get that. But sometimes an exceptional record finds what appears to be a damn-near supernatural way of hitting your sphere at just the right time, ticking all the boxes you hope to have ticked and then some. For me, Mother of Light is just such a record. There is a palpable elegance and sophistication to the way it haunts, but it also delivers a heavy, intense, and leveling power that comes at the listener from a completely different path compared to the characteristic riff-soused, blast-beated drubbing many of us likewise value.
Furthermore, there’s the alluring cerebral boon at work here—a ruminative exploration of heady matters, such as humankind’s tireless pursuit of esoteric enlightenment, and the ever gripping examination of death and what might follow. Again, experiencing the loss of a beloved and vital force in my life all too recently, I feel a distinct bond to Mother of Light, specifically in the way O’Neill inspires the listener to think about the absence of finality when it comes to death. I’ve always felt a bit sad for those who adhere to the “once the tale is done, you’re done” mentality, because that seems patently incompatible with the species. We are storytellers to our very core, we humans, and we know the end of the story is just that, the end to one story—a momentary interruption before the next tale kicks off anew. Lost loved ones live on through our stories, through our songs, and through art as a whole, and with a little luck and some moderately righteous living, we can hope for a similar fate for ourselves at some point in the future.
The notion of the death of Death reveals with it a vast canvas for artist and thinker alike, and a record such as this not only makes for a splendid companion to such introspection, it sets the table for a very enticing second and third step in the Ancient Tomes trilogy yet to come. Consequently, I say with substantial confidence: The opening move achieved by Serpentent’s Mother of Light is extraordinarily powerful, and with it comes the highest recommendation. Just prepare yourself for a good ol’ fashioned leveling.
Ahoy, it’s Bandcamp Friday! Go do the thing!
