The Soil
The crest of first-wave black metal is a bed of nutrient-rich gravesoil. While thrash was pushing into more progressive or commercially viable territories and death metal was beginning to find its own sheen and polish at the helms of Morrisound or Sunlight Studios, black metal festered deeper in the underground. Groups like Root, Samael, Mystifier, Mortuary Drape, and Master’s Hammer worked in the murkier, grimier peat, breaking down and reconstructing their influences into something that elicited a primitive, primal sense of mystery cloaked in dark ritual and feral instinct. It’s the topsoil from whence the trees of Scandinavian and Hellenic black metal sprung, the likes of Venom, Bathory, Sodom, Sarcófago dug in like gnarled roots.
Despite forming around a quarter century afterwards, Denmark’s Gabestok find roots alongside the lot of them. Their 2019 Tre debut sounds like it could have sprouted from the loam of ’89-’93. Heavy-as-balls-and-just-as-fuzzy tones, half-growled/half-snarled vocals, rude outbursts of punk energy, doom passages washed in harrowing organs, and a penchant for strong songwriting showcased a band moreso finding a muse in the period than merely copying bygones of yesteryear.
By album two it’s clear that Gabestok understand not only the sound of the era and how to harness it–they get the Attitude. Én Gang Rådden, Altid Rådden opens up the band’s palette of influence a little more, mixing early Mercyful Fate and the Italian horror flavor of Death SS into their already potent brew. The punk side became even more rabid, fermenting to a particularly frothy bite. The synths became more intricate and a little more prominent, turning up the levels of bizarre mysticism. The songwriting captured the Master’s Hammer magic; the accidental brilliance that comes from writing feeling over formula in a moment of intoxicated inspiration. Brewed from the hops and barley grown in those black, fertile, decomposing soils of metal and consumed from a human skull in heathenly, ritualistic splendor.
As Above
For a swift summary, Med Freden Kommer Hadet comes across like Gabestok have traded the beer skulls for strange mushrooms discovered growing in the festering sores of a decaying corpse. The record is a burst of absurdist dadaism through the primal ooze of metals black; imagine a barbaric ape gazing at the full moon through a kaleidoscope while wearing particularly large sunglasses.
“Move it, you old goats!” they scream as they so arrogantly stomp the gas over the bridge of the following track, “Det Er Mig Der Står Herd Og Lurer.” The otherwise grungy, mead-slogging mid-pace of the song builds, layering harmonies as each instrument edges its way into the melody on its build on its way to full eruption. The attack is still barbaric and crude, but the way in which the song builds in intensity holds onto every moment–the way time slows down in the throughs of bloodthirsty battle or passionate sex. The more intense it becomes, the more those primal chord progressions at the beginning of the song achieve harmony.
By “Når Bølgerne Vender,” the waves of Gabestok’s death trip have doubled down in intensity. The rich, swampy murk of the guitar/bass/drums spore mezmerizing synth harmonies as the barbaric eye sees clearly through the opaque black metal lense and into the kaleidoscope of death rock, post-punk, garage psychedelia (opening riff on “Tab Dagen” in particular), goth rock (“Kun Traumerne Tilbage”), all while never fully stepping outside of the heavy metal realm. Even the fabled King Diamond falsettos that made a brief but instantly memorable experience on the opening of Én Gang Rådden, Altid Rådden return–this time in the album’s center. It’s a little bone rattlin’ number that focuses around a simple but effective chord progression, infectious lunatic wailing, and the ancient but effective rock ‘n’ roll trick of smashing the hell out of a single chord on a piano on the last time around through the verse.
Perhaps this is one of Gabestok’s greatest strengths–they use their toolbox selectively. Right tool for the job, every time. The core guitar/bass/drums/vocals, stripped of all the bells and whistles, would still be strong songs on their own. The band’s compositional chops on Med Freden Kommer Hadet are in full peak; they have a knack for layering just the right sounds in to milk the emotional intensity of each track. It makes for a record packed with moments that simultaneously tease and satisfy, creating an itch that can only be scratched by pressing play again.
So Below
Med Freden Kommer Hadet was released roughly four weeks ago. It’s been in constant rotation for reasons that can easily be ascertained Above. It’s a blast of a record, with instantaneous replay value–be it basking in the hooks that subtly cast their spores into the eardrums or listening deeper and unlocking the underlying treasures in the music.
Then I looked at the cover. I mean, really looked at it. Sure, I saw a wash of color on my phone but I never looked closely until I started writing the review. Changed my trip. The funhouse mirror suddenly became a dark reflection in an oil slick. Washed in the glimmering chemical reflection, in the company of Shoko Asahara superimposed on the Buddha and the Jonestown picture that Jimmy Buffet doesn’t like to talk about, the picture of the gleeful child with the revolver to his head sent a paralyzing chill down my spine. While I’m a long way from Denmark, given the epidemic of gun violence in my country–particularly involving young victims–the image felt potent, relevant, and a little too close to home.
There’s a thoughline between the cover art of Med Freden Kommer Hadet and the way I perceive the record. On one hand it’s the parrots, the Buddha, the smile; on the other it’s witnessing man’s inherent, cult-like dedication to self-destruction that manifests itself like burning acid flashbacks on the collective consciousness. Something cruel and violent within us that we seek to bury away into the soil, refusing to acknowledge until we’re forced to examine our own reflection. Just as Black Sabbath, Charles Manson, and Hunter Thompson bore witness to the abandonment–nay, strangulation–of the hippie movement, the true cultural relevance and esoteric purpose of both have been lost to misguided glorifications, collapsing in on the the weight of its darkest, unacknowledged conclusions.
To be fair, this is a lot to ask of a band whose name translates from Danish to English as “Gag stick.’ But perhaps that’s the beauty of it all: absurd enough to entice, rich enough to inspire, while remaining vague enough to spark the dark imagination. Maybe it’s just me forcing meaning onto something I like. Hard not to when you’re but a barbaric ape attempting to see the full spectrum of the kaleidoscope though a particularly stylish pair of big sunglasses. Very important to remember.
