Be se abbudisse ic cann hider mæg Eald Englisc writan gewrit se cealla nót ryne cymþ. Bisene “this album fuses virtual death dance
with digitized fields of interminable boardwalks”
Hit “the modern era has hidden it’s ghosts in these found electronic sounds”
Hércyme þæt gewand sy. þára stæfgeféga þæt gewand oerlædende sy. Hit:
If it were not for the internet I would not be attempting this. I would have had to stalk a monk or teach my one very-super-smart friend how to eat kale or something in exchange for erudition.
The digitization of doom (dóm) is right here, in these sounds, it is the content our ears desire and it necessitates translation. This album places the doom at our fingertips, forcing us to sit in it, noxious and genipfullne. Our grasp on material reality is herein pureed – What else is there to say? Is there a point at which all languages, whether verbal, sonic, or programmatic reach a point of non-translation as a point of no return? (bearhtmhwíle nā edcierres). ábrégdedest þu? You should be. This is birth.
|þá gýt híe him ásetton segen gyldenne|
|héah ofer héafod· léton holm beran·|
|géafon on gársecg· him wæs geómor sefa|
|murnende mód· men ne cunnon|
|secgan tó sóðe seleraédenne|
|hæleð under heofenum hwá þaém hlæste onféng.
Which is to say, this album deepens as does a vision. You must seek in it a journey. The terrain is often painful. Disparity is unyielding. At best we may reach the other side recalling a voice that, at the beginning of our plight, called out to us in a colloquial way.