Grendel’s Sÿster – Katabasis Into The Abaton Review

Would we even have heavy metal today if it weren’t for folk music? Let’s just go with a hearty “NO, BY HELL, WE WOULD NOT,” considering that our genre’s golden architect—Black Sabbath—was certainly influenced by English folk and folklore, and tendrils of folk have been woven around heavy riffage through most every face and era of the genre since.

Folk metal, however—as in the actual off-shoot of metal that underscores folk music as its principal element—didn’t fully rifle down the chute until Skyclad’s seminal debut in 1991, Wayward Sons of Mother Earth, and from there it’s broadened, amplified and rooted itself to the point where we basically can’t throw a stone in our realm without hitting a lutist square in the chiclets. This is a good thing. This is a very good thing, because folk and folklore are, um, for the folk—you, me and everyone in between—and having folk stories and the music connected to those stories unifying humans in creative ways is a tremendous and magnificent power.

For their part, Grendel’s Sÿster offers up a form of folkened metal torn from a similar spellbook used by the likes of The Lord Weird Slough Feg, Herzel, Tanith and maybe even a touch of Dark Forest, which essentially equates to a fairly stripped down affair that’s indebted to folk in structure, but largely circumvents common folk linchpins such as fiddles, flutes, whistles, accordions, mandolins et al. And fostering a bit of separation from their peers (outside of Tanith), Grendel’s Sÿster doubles down on the unembellishment by featuring a very modest rank and file that includes a drummer, a bassist, a vocalist, and—now, don’t freak out—just one guitarist. So, yes, hopes of being buried under an avalanche of endless twin lead Thin Lizzy wizardry (lizzardry?) should be shelved immediately. Make no mistake, though: Katabasis Into the Abaton is a very melodic album, it simply achieves that objective in more modest terms.

Opener “Boar’s Tusk Helmet” (spectacular; give me 14 of them right now) fast-tracks the album’s overall intention inside its opening moments. The song is bright, sprightly, crammed with merry hooks, and melodic without beating you over the head with undue noodling. That familiar trad metal gallop gives the track solid heft, and that’s a nice counterbalance to all the snappiness of that infectious chorus that’s as festive as a blunderbuss firing off a Maifest launch.

Vocalist Caro is certainly a standout on “Boar’s Tusk,” as she is throughout the whole of the record. Her’s is a style that’s sorta unrefined by design, and it balances wonderfully with the band’s determination to deliver a record that sounds very “live from the studio” in both execution and production. There’s a distinct endearing quality to Caro’s voice, and that’s rooted in both the way she occupies a storyteller role for the album’s mythical / medieval themes AND in the way she manages to conjure a unique form of playful mischievousness as she trills and howls through each chapter. It may just be me, but I can’t help but draw comparison to a singer like Björk, who’s always left me feeling as if her lyrics are being knit with jusssst the right amount of mythical peril pinned beneath all that charm. And for those not familiar with Björk: 1) Get right with that, and 2) Imagine wandering into a cozy pub on karaoke night and suddenly finding your professor of Classical Literature and Poetry on stage roaring through a rendition of Slade’s “Run Runaway” with the conviction of Blondie—that’s basically Caro throughout Katabasis Into the Abaton. And yes, there is a bit of a punky undertone that becomes all the more clear on the more aggressive numbers. “Night Owl’s Beak,” for example, and also as she snarls through the bulk of “The Plight of a Sorcerer.”

As it happens, the rest of the band ain’t exactly slouches, either. Being a stripped down affair, each player’s contribution is clearly discernible at any given moment from start to finish, and the collective does an admirable job of mixing up the pace and temperament across the album’s full 38-minutes. It’s that rollicking, bardic sense of adventure that governs the overall trajectory, though, and despite the fact that a modicum of sinisterness flits about like kobolds in the cupboards at night, the ultimate result of Katabasis Into the Abaton feels more akin to, say, a Redwall escapade rather than something as dark and severe as Cook’s The Black Company. That’s a good thing, mind you. Not that there’s anything wrong with explicitly grim lore in literature and music, obviously, but sometimes a slightly lighter escape from reality that focuses on lively, frolicsome hooks is just what the maester ordered. If news of that sounds tempting to you, and the idea of having it all wrapped up in a toothsome form of classic folk metal ups the ante, best get Grendel’s Sÿster and Katabasis Into the Abaton on the ol’ short list straight away.