Ævangelist
Enthrall to the Void of Bliss

The "fascination of beatific void" is now the favorite slogan of the Americans Ævangelist, as they delve into the most abject sounds conceivable among the various extreme metal groups. (Un)fairly received by critics with more than a few perplexities, and even criticized by seasoned audiences for being too pretentious and driven by excessive radicalism, their journey quickly diverges from the paradigms of death metal (De Masticatione Mortuorum In Tumulis, their striking 2012 debut) to mold a deformed material, perhaps close to "post-" ramifications, yet increasingly difficult to categorize. This path, by the way, starts to be tainted both by gratuitous cacophony and self-referentiality: the degenerate duo of Matron Thorn and Ascaris compromises nothing, disregards the ca$h, and prefers to remain a cult reality for those who willingly sacrifice many of their brain synapses by listening to their albums in full. The story remains the same: either you leave, or you take it (in the most scandalous sense of the term). I took it all.

Focusing on the latest (2015) abortion of the two evangelists, we can note some continuity with the previous Writhes in the Murk (2014): on one hand, there is a detachment from the bone-crushing debut of 2012 and (especially) from the apocalyptic outrage of Omen Ex Simulacra (2013); on the other, we have a riffing structure that is often hypnotic and grounding, sacrificing much of the violence in favor of an even more sinister visionariness. Aberration, irrationality, despair, and iconoclasm remain faithful companions, but the way of expressing them is different: the feeling is that, after towering and pillaging the Empyrean with the exaggerated Omen Ex Simulacra, Ævangelist have plunged down to surrender to the raging waves of some infernal river (of oblivion, hatred, lament, at the unfortunate listener's discretion), and they revel in it excessively.

Granted that they have never been the classic group focused on "the riff," but rather excellent alchemists of a sound that requires immersion and patience above all, in Enthrall to the Void of Bliss you can still find quite a few melodic cues, even intelligible ones; assuming we can talk about melody. For example, from the very first seconds of the opener Arcanæ Manifestia, we must drill our cochleae with a magnificent agonizing tremolo, prolonged ad nauseam for long exhausting minutes until the line between mystical ecstasy and aural masochism becomes very thin. To make matters worse, a new addition to the young multi-instrumentalist Matron's arsenal makes its debut, as he now dabbles with what seems to be a distorted and detuned electric harp. Needless to say, the cacophony coefficient is maximized to grotesque levels, so much so that when reaching the 30 seconds of pig burp at the end of the track, one wonders if these guys aren't taking us for fools. (Yes, but also no.)

Cloister of the Temple of Death, like the whole album, is (strangely) well studied in songwriting: Ævangelist alternate with care gratuitous ferocity, feverish solos, and catatonic slowdowns, all accompanied by that damn harp that insinuates itself obliquely and hammeringly everywhere. The agitated vocal litanies reveal a morbid religiosity, already suggested by the band's name itself: evangelist of something unknown but surely ominous. The rest of the vocal repertoire, rich in catacombal growls, bestial screams, and various degrees of laryngeal abuse, does its filthy work as usual.

Gatekeeper's Scroll continues the trail of poison and ramblings, but unleashes even more incisive and even catchy riffs; but Alchemy comes in to interrupt the bloodletting for a few moments, thanks to a perfectly placed electro-ritual-ambient interlude that seems to echo the darkest and most minimal Ulver: "souls like water", Ascaris obsessively declares in the only moment of apparent lucidity. And if it's true that the serpentine coils of Levitating Stones and especially the concluding Meditation of Transcendental Evil betray, once again, a perverse fascination for ritualisms (a nice orgiastic mix of female laments), the antimelody with its unpleasant emetic effects perhaps reaches its peak with Emanation, which blatantly crosses into bad taste. Forgive me for the improper comparison, but at some point in the track an incomprehensible mess erupts and, among other things, it seemed to me that Scott Walker on methamphetamine made an appearance in the studio (if so, I hope he survived).

Whether it's occasional nods to death, slow doomy repetitions, flirtations with post-black dissonances, or even electronic incursions (see the recent split with Blut Aus Nord), Ævangelist's interpretation of extreme metal remains unique, personal, now strong with a recognizable stylistic signature (at least for those who revel in this genre). And their imagery becomes increasingly ambiguous, in constant upheaval; an imagery where boundaries vanish and opposites contaminate each other: pain and pleasure, ecstasy and torment, dizzying heights and unfathomable abysses, absolute devotion, and immense mockery. Perhaps it is still early to say, but I believe (fear, hope) that in the years to come they will continue to make a name for themselves.