Arcana
Cantar De Procella

If by chance one day you get the insane idea to tie your sister to a stake and set a pyre with the intent of enjoying the sublime vision of the unfortunate one who, burning, screams and writhes desperately among the flames, I recommend for your deeds, as a worthy soundtrack, this "Cantar de Procella", a gothic brick that will undoubtedly feed the inquisitorial spirit that burns latent within you.

The Arcana, flagship project of the Swedish label Cold Meat Industry, are the dark godchildren of Dead Can Dance: Peter Pettersson (synthesizers, keyboards, percussion, and voice) and Ida Bengtsson (voice) retrace very faithfully the footsteps of Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard, so much so that at times you feel enveloped in the atmospheres of the unsurpassed "Within the Realm of a Dying Sun". But instead of soaring high into the sky and performing reckless metaphysical flights, the two Swedes prefer to fly low, crawl in the mud of medieval villages, descend damp stairs and delve into narrow basements infested with cobwebs and strange tools.

In the dungeons of a castle, far from the grace of God (but very close to His rigor), the music of Arcana materializes, a corridor in Time that aims to take us far away, to places devoid of hope, where perhaps (I say perhaps) we will not meet Death, but we will certainly feel its suffocating and threatening looming. The thrill of mystery, the charm of the arcane, the agony of waiting: twelve paintings along a gloomy gallery crossed by a dusty red vermilion carpet and flanked by crumbling stone walls. A sepulchral path that intends to lead to the places of Fate, terrible rooms where we will consume our imprisonment.

"Cantar de Procella", released in 1997, far surpasses the medieval debut "Dark Age of Reason", getting even closer to the dark-ambient of Peter Andersson (the mastermind of Raison D'être and the father-master of Cold Meat Industry), while not losing the gothic vein that has always distinguished the duo.

Chilly synthesizers, sounds repeated in loops, the secular beat of drums, the slow tolls of bells. The rust and chill of the chains that imprison us and scrape our skin: twelve gloomy liturgies that insinuate themselves hypnotically into our minds, like dense drops of putrid water filtering through the cracks of a dilapidated roof, tapping, one after another, on our heads. Profaning it, piercing it, penetrating deep into the soul.

Twelve torments inflicted on us with the methodicity of torture. Gestures, glances, and words that grow in intensity, or indulge immobile in their severity, aiming to extract a confession from us.

Or lead us to death.

Pettersson's synthesizers erect sharp ice spikes, tremulous breaths, and threatening strings that dig into the skin and soul like a knife in a wound ("The Opening of the Wound"), sometimes morbidly accompanied by the icy voice of the piano ("Gathering of the Storm"), the sluggish march of the harpsichord ("La Salva de Profundis"), the majestic and thunderous organ of a crumbling church ("Aeterna Doloris").

The mournful warbles of Pettersson, who loves overdubbing and thus recreates desolate choirs of unwavering Inquisition agents, overwhelm the listener through formulas and psalms repeated to obsession: immortal chants that admonish us, that describe desolate songs of melancholy, that weigh on our shoulders like death sentences.

Or atrocious torture.

Relegated to the background are Bengtsson's ethereal fancies, a slender soprano always ready to embellish Pettersson's polyphonic choirs but who will nevertheless carve out suggestive moments as a protagonist: like the touching "The Song of Solitude (The Cry of Isolde)", a brief a cappella interlude, or the monumental title track, which, progressively enriched with voices and orchestrations, ends up becoming, layer by layer, an enchanting mantra with ominous hypnotic power (try driving at night without getting distracted, if you can!).

Or like the poignant "The Tree Within", called to close the 47 minutes of this "Cantar de Procella": a work that may indeed cause you to languish in monotony (the scheme, more or less, is repeated in all the tracks, and all the tracks replicate the same, bleak atmospheres), but which cannot fail to captivate you, estrange you, and lead you elsewhere, away from this world, with your mind and heart.

The Arcana will refine their art over the years, but as a first step, we like to recommend this second work, perhaps still a bit rough, but which does not yet fall into mannerism and already can reveal the maturity and professionalism that will soon guarantee the duo (no longer duo) access to the upper floors of today's gothic music.