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And so the title goes. I must say I’m not feeling particularly anxious as I lay down in my crypt (where else), to soak up the sounds of Polish death dealers, Kult Mogil. What could possibly happen? It’s only music, after all…
The title track kicks off proceedings, and from the off I know this is a little different. There is an immediate sense of terror that has me looking over my shoulder more than once during the opening first minutes of noise. The guitars crunch and spit as you would expect, but they also howl; the vocals grunt and growl, but there are also moans of demonic intent; and yes, you get blast beats and speed, but the drumming at times is truly, hellishly chaotic. When the track takes off in the final minute, the first beads of sweat gather upon my forehead.
’Threnody’ turns up the fear factor, sending a shiver through my soul; military rolls and screaming feedback slide into a funereal, snakelike slab of doom. But nothing is straightforward in this Kult’s vision of death; and the track twists and turns so I can never relax. I pace the room, my mouth dry, my chest tight. I want to open a window and let air in, but am afraid of what else may come crawling through…
‘Threnody’ bleeds into track three, the apocalyptic noise of ‘Serene Pods’, as primal and powerful a piece of death as you are likely to be subjected to, but still retaining an experimental edge and a sense of the unknown. Now I’m struggling to breathe. The atmosphere in the room has changed, poisoned with fear, poisoned with hate.. poisoned with.. death.
‘Poczatek Wrazen’ follows, and after a slow, bruising intro we’re off at a relentless pace, the drums propelling the track in extremis, the guitars alternating between brutal thrash and chiming space-rock, adding to my confusion, and that word again, fear. What was that? That sound??
The wailing guitar which heralds ‘Width Of A Forehead’ has me clawing at my arms, in tears. This is the sound of the Harpies, luring me to death. And I am ready for it! I cannot take anymore. Release me! Yet I am not released, and the sounds of infernal damnation grow louder still.
And so the epic ‘Palliative Messiah’ closes the coffin. Or so you think… because, like Escher’s staircase, I found myself returning to the beginning, or was it the end? As my trembling hand reaches out, I hit PLAY, and once more am born into pain, to endure Kult Mogil and their never-ending anxiety again, and again, and again, and again…
For fans of eternal torment.
Review: Rivethead
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