There is music that sounds like your brain feels and then there is music that sounds like you never want your brain to feel. Which is totally fine. Let the music do the feeling for you. Let it slaughter the little goth in your throat and provide contagion and inoculation both for God only knows what.
If you know your philosophy you know that Pyrrho was a Christ-like peripatetic and possibly the first documented mind to consider the indeterminacy of scientific knowledge. In order to remain true to this album and the philosophy it draws from, I feel we must expound the nature of it’s existence, lack of concrete evidence and all:
Overall, it’s bleak. Not hopelessly so, more like an igneous rock is bleak, because of the extent of damage qua inception and because this damage is frozen in time. The damage takes on the character of a revolution: Endowed by a moment in history that was truly Not So Great yet necessary to memorialize. In such a fashion we lay the moment to rest, caskets and lilies and psalms. You listen to the damage with interest and the question emerges: How do we memorialize uncertainty, of thought and as an era?
Perhaps, for all this album’s antagonism, it is the only option (or at least the most presentable) for such a task. Voices that no longer speak. Time measured in impact, forced relativity. Sound that has grown indistinguishable from rage. We question if raging is not in fact the only form of worship left. A mass de-tonation of spirit and guitar.
Some metal deserves to be screamed; in my opinion most does not. Here the screaming makes sense, especially when there’s a chorus of it. The human brain can indeed be a sick theme and variation, the musculature essentially self-referential. Screaming may be the only means to interrupt this process, a catalyst that provides an echoing pulse that runs through the body, awakening conviction. This may be salvation. There may be no other way to question doubt.