Andrew King
Deus Ignotus

I vividly remember the impressions I received the first time I listened to “Deus Ignotus”, it must have been a week ago (well, memory fails, but only to a point) and I was running in the dark (nothing transcendental: a bit of jogging after work) and stumbling, I thought: why? Why after a hard day's work does one go running (perhaps to free oneself from tension and negative energy, not to attract them) and have to listen to this music? If one is tired and not very eager to go running, one needs dynamic and varied music that pumps adrenaline into the blood without allowing the dark mantle of boredom to overwhelm them, but pressing the play button (I still use the Walkman) I already knew that in the hour ahead, nothing would happen, or at least nothing that could support me in my physical activity. And while arcane chants, drones and percussion wildly echoed in my ears, the slender figure of a blonde in a sky-blue tracksuit speeding by caught my attention, and I thought: what does she have on her iPod to go so fast? Meanwhile, anti-raid sirens, martial percussion, a raging fanatic shouting agonizing invectives in my ears, and I wondered: why? Why did I end up in the loop of music where nothing happens? Where nothing flows easily? Who can ever free me from the dark schemes of neo-folk?

However, listened to calmly, “Deus Ignotus” is not bad at all; indeed, in its genre it can be seen as a masterpiece, a cultured work, very cultured, but not for every occasion.

Andrew King has now become Tony Wakeford's right-hand man, as well as a fundamental pillar of today's Sol Invictus: we heard him sing in “Into the Woods” (Wakeford's solo work), in “Ghosts” by The Triple Tree project (again with Wakeford), in the latest Sol Invictus album, the excellent “The Cruellest Month” from last year. Also from last year is this “Deus Ignotus”, third solo work released at length by the reserved English singer, after the good “The Bitter Harvest” (1998) and “The Amfortas Wound” (2003). From the latter, instrumentalist/producer Hunter Barr and percussionist John Murphy (a well-known name in neo-folk circles for various collaborations, including those with Death in June, Current 93, and Boyd Rice), both already companions in the Knifeladder project, are inherited. Completing the group is violinist Maria Vellanz, whose instrument blends perfectly within the fabric of this essentially uncategorizable music: a massive sound that aims to function as a point of contact between the arcane and universalizing suggestions of European folk tradition and the harshness of industrial avant-garde, an oxymoron if you will, a screeching contradiction that is overcome by the wisdom and sensitivity of a character like Andrew King, one who moves only if he feels he has something to say, and say it well.

A learned medievalist, expert in Anglo-Saxon culture and history, Andrew King deploys primitive energies that, far from clashing with an expressive medium that makes extensive use of looped sounds, sequencers, and field recording (where the dominant scheme is the crescendo, with the martial sound provided by Murphy's impeccable flair being surely an added value), manage to renew the dark tradition of the Middle Ages and the immediately following centuries in the light of contemporary times, rediscovering ancient moods that indeed sound terribly current to us. A sort of sung mass celebrated in the midst of a grim battlefield, where however the forces clashing are virtues and human weaknesses. It's human nature, beauty! And the picture surrounding it is a world of ancestral fears and superstitions where the sacred (strong is the presence of that Christianity imbued in European soil), pagan, and occult confront each other in a context where blood, iron, and fire disrupt existences, and the individual finds himself overwhelmed by a ruthless, magical, absurd nature and the inevitability of a violent Death lurking behind the sorrowful veil of the incomprehensible.

“Deus Ignotus”, with the exception of the short instrumental introduction “Corvus Terrae Terror” (the only track signed by King) is thus a series of reworkings of ballads, themes and texts of European folkloric tradition, centuries-old pieces given new life thanks to the careful research, including historiographic, of a musician who is more than a musician and who approaches his artistic material with the scientific rigor and passion of a researcher. For example, the opening track “The Three Ravens” (penned Thomas Ravenscroft) dates back to the 1600s, while “Edward” (another traditional, already revisited in the latest Sol Invictus) even to the 1200s. In “Sic Mea Fata Canendo Solor” the Carmina Burana is even dusted off, and in other moments the New Testament is called into play, but I won't bore you with details that, for those interested, are accessible directly within the booklet (dotted with exhaustive notes explaining the genesis and development of each individual piece, and completed by a rich bibliography that summarizes the numerous consulted texts).

Finally, we come to music: given these premises, it would be fair to expect an apocalyptic folk in Sol Invictus and Blood Axis style. Not quite: in “Deus Ignotus”, which though recalls certain atmospheres of the respective latest albums of the two entities just evoked, there are no guitars, no folk orchestrated by complex instrumental layering is presented, there are no crooners talking to us about the imminence of the end of the world. “Deus Ignotus” is a dark and threatening monolith dominated by the heavy and oscillating sound of a harmonium and the crash of percussion, all seasoned with the electronic devilries staged by Barr. Vellanz's violin, which will often delight us with its vibrato, is essentially given a finishing role, except to find a prominent position in the compelling “Froleichen So Well Wir”, incidentally already explored in the past by King together with the aforementioned Blood Axis.

However, it is necessary to add that all this ends up serving as a mere stage for Andrew King's overwhelming flair, whose proud and belligerent baritone lament (only sporadically accompanied by operatic choirs and Vellanz's ethereal voice) sews itself into the role of absolute protagonist. His singing is panic-inducing, reaching unimaginable interpretative peaks, it is an unseemly roar getting lost in the mud of centuries, it is as forceful as the battle cry of a military commander, as gentle as the soliloquy of the lone soul who gazes at the moon posing unsolvable questions; it becomes harsh, evocative, theatrical, now incited by the drum's impetus (“Judas,” “Sir Hugh”), now engaging and recited, accompanied by the murky flow of keyboards (“The Wife of Usher's Well”), now hallucinated and over the top (“In Upper Room”), even allowing for moments without musical accompaniment (the already mentioned “Edward” and the tedious “Lord Level,” for voice alone).

In a word: phenomenal.

But returning to the initial questions: I ended up in a big mess, this is not easy music. But once the boundary is crossed, it will be quite difficult to retrace one's steps.

Happy to have plunged into this labyrinth.