Mother Of Graves – The Periapt Of Absence Review

Smoke rises from a dirty ashtray and drifts over the side table toward the yellowing windows. September has bled into October, unusually warm, and time seems to have stopped altogether. Day after day, the same. My eyes blankly stare into the parking lot, narrowing in detached curiosity at which of the steel blips speeding by might spell my timely end. I’ve stolen something precious, and the victims of my greed do not forgive and do not forget.

All that above nonsense is to say that our own, our beloved Spencer and/or Josh had every right to this review, and I stole it. Like a desperate rat I skittered in and snagged it while they were busy doing hot girl shit. But, BUT! I can write, too, damn it. Maybe not with the same eloquence, insight, swagger, prolificacy, or good old contagious Midwestern charm as they have, mind you, but stick with me. I really dig what these here Indy lads Mother of Graves are doing, and The Periapt of Absence is as worthy a successor to Where the Shadows Adorn as the doomly deathsters could have crafted. Indeed, where the prior album was veiled in a miasmatic shroud, this one is such a brighter, bolder step into the outer atmosphere as to make me, asthmatic, proud. Despite such cumbersome and cheery phrasing I assure you, the bottom line is the same: this here is a class-A melodic doom death album, steeped in nostalgic reverence for the old gods and stricken through from end to end with piercing heartache.

One might think that such a devotion to a particular time and place in the hallowed halls of heavy might also warrant a particular production style to boot. Thankfully, The Periapt of Absence largely eschews the murky, dry and dusty for a clean, robust foundation upon which they stack thin but precisely defined layers of velvety keys, glassy clean guitars, and most crucial of all the weeping leads, delicate harmonies and high-BMI-but-not-yet-morbidly-obese rhythm guitars. Truly, guitarist Ben Sandman (and some saintly nobody named Dan Swanö from some legendary nowhere named Unisound) must be commended – the production on this record is dialed in. Every instrument audible and potent, every vocal beguilingly distant yet discernable and punchy. This overall sonic adjustment from the debut full-length is the most superficially noticeable upgrade to their established formula. The second is the deeper, structural change to the formula itself. Where the Shadows Adorn was the sound of a band knowing the secret eleven herbs and spices to make a murdered, skinned and oil-drowned chicken a pure dopamine delivery vehicle. The Periapt of Absence asks “What if the fried chicken was also on sweet, luscious waffles?”

Pictured: guitarist trudging into Riff Cave in Misery Mire

Throughout the album’s succinct 45-minute runtime (fellow doom peddlers take note: just because your stock and trade is slow doesn’t mean the transaction must also be interminably long) there are enough bait-and-switches and clever tricks to keep the experience fresh. Plenty of similarly mired in misery bands are (dis)content to pull their riffs and harmonies out of the same sad sack. Tonally, yes, Mother of Graves do not stray too far from their (dis)comfort zone; they simply have a larger arsenal of tools at their disposal.

Take the first portion of “A Scarlet Threnody”, for example. After two strong opening tracks of largely full-band vigor, all of a sudden everything is stripped down to a lone clean guitar. A simple arpeggiation continues on by its lonesome for a full one and a half minutes before the bass guitar joins (a welcome moment to shine for Corey Clark), weaving through and against the guitar part in complementary sway. When the drums and guitar hit at 2:40 it is not a satisfying reconciliation, harmonically. The passage does not land flush but instead buckles forward, for a moment, as if it had nearly collapsed. That sounds like a dig, I know, but it’s inspired. The first time I experienced this whole sequence I was taken aback, first at how grateful I was for its warmth and beauty, second at the audacity of its end. Moments like these are what make great music so impactful, having the awareness of pacing within a totality and the foresight to subvert the expected catharsis. These moments happened often for me throughout The Periapt of Absence, so much so that I hesitate to go down, line by line, through the track list, as the act of listening to the album became just that. Every time I returned to it I wanted to start at the beginning and drift to the end, as if on a lazy river of the band’s tears.

The end of the previous paragraph notwithstanding, I would be remiss not to highlight the highlight. The culmination of songwriting on The Periapt of Absence is, to these imbecilic ears, “Upon Burdened Hands”. It’s as if Mother of Graves put the proverbial pen to paper with the intent being “write the most Mother of Graves song you can write. PS, add a few pinch harmonics and a particularly sick riff”. The opening/chorus riff and lead are straight from the playbook of mid-period Katatonia but a little less tearsome, a little more fearsome. Of course, Brandon Howe’s leveling growls add some bawls (take either interpretation of that and you’re correct) to the proceedings. These guys have a lot going for them; you could point to any one of many elements and declare that to be the one that lifts them above their ilk. I would personally point to Brandon Howe as chief among those special qualities. He has an Akerfeldt-ian clarity and brutality to his harsh vocals, and the sincerity of his delivery, between the lyrics and the performance itself, is palpable.

The midsection of the song takes the chords and lead of the chorus and transposes them to a clean guitar and piano. The piano lead breaks rank and alters the intervals here and there, adding an ominous tinge to the proceedings, before the full band joins in a skeletal reinterpretation of the previous material. Brandon recites lyrics, spoken-word, in the distance as the fog gathers until the aforementioned pinches and sick riff stomp in and dispel the drama in favor of balled-fist fury. This section seamlessly transitions into another, fuller pre-chorus followed by a final triumphant chorus. Triumphant is a curious word in such traditionally woeful context but man, it really feels triumphant. “Upon Burdened Hands” is a wonderful song and a fantastic lesson in how to absolutely fucking nail this style.

I suppose that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Mother of Graves are well-studied and ace the test, but it’s not only that. Plenty of today’s bands skate by, and pretty comfortably at that, acing tests that bands from 1994 gave them the answers to. These guys have managed to tinker enough within the well-worn machinery to make the old engine roar with a modern vitality. How bout that ripping, near-blast pace transition to just-quicker-than-comfortable mid-paced groove in “Like Darkness to a Dying Flame”? Or that harmonized tapping lead halfway through “Shatter the Visage” that thrillingly bisects the halves of the song? Or the stately introduction to the title track that feels like entering a Victorian manse, ornate and austere, and wandering down a hall lined with portraits of the dead? I could go on but shouldn’t. You’ll see for yourself on October 18.

Photo by Kristie Vantlin

They found me. God damn it, I know it was a matter of time but I thought maybe…maybe I could keep going. That the effort spent on vengeance might not be worth the sweet reward.

The door opened, that familiar Spencer and Josh aroma as loud as their footsteps. It was worth it, all of it. One brandishes a gun, the other bleach, and I turn up my headphones. “Gallows” begins again and I shut my eyes.

Posted by Isaac Hams

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