Burzum
Belus

I'm starting off wide.

Let's begin with the dimly lit studio of Annozero a few episodes ago, an unusual setting for a debate revolving around Morgan, who had just been ousted from the Sanremo competition for now infamously known statements. Amidst the dense fog of a media frenzy probably constructed to increase the singer's popularity, more on the small screen than in the stereo of a sensible listener, I was struck by a phrase that, rightly or wrongly, made me glimpse a shadow of truth (and also of anguished fragility) in the words of our crafty homegrown musician: okay, I messed up, but now let me do my job! Let me perform my profession!

Call me crazy, but in the furrowed face of the dazed and bearded 2010 branded Burzum, repeatedly portrayed in woeful forest poses on his shiny new website, I saw the same anguished fragility: after 17 years of prison cloister, Vikernes too seems to want, more than anything else, to reclaim his status as a musician, and, more specifically, his status as a black metal musician, the role that has undoubtedly suited him best during nearly two decades of media exposure.

Seventeen years is a long time, and it almost makes us reflect on the sense of time passing. How many things can happen, how many have happened in 17 years! We are no longer the same, the world is not the same. Confined in his four walls—what he then boldly dubbed a “hotel”—Vikernes lived a frozen life, suspended, out of time; after 17 years, he returns to life, a child in the guise of a decrepit old man: it's impossible to compare him to that awkward teenager we can still imagine smoothing his hair, barely concealing visible discomfort, behind the courtroom benches during the trial for Euronymous's murder. This is where I begin to talk about “Belus,” an unexpected 2010 discographic return, only a few months after his release; I start by caressing the trail of these long 17 years, during which a certain conception of black metal evolved, reached its peak, then deflated, only to die.

From the ashes of Burzum's work, among the pioneers of the dazzling Norwegian school of the nineties, a new strand unexpectedly developed within black metal, later encapsulated in the definition “depressive”, primarily by American followers who, at certain times, managed to revisit and articulate the lessons of the seminal one-man Norwegian band, keeping alive the artistic flame of our Maestro, especially where his compositions suffered from a sort of minimalist redundancy (which, mind you, made him great, unique, and light-years ahead of his respectable peers of the time).

“Belus” is neither better nor worse than what the world produced after “Filosofem.” “Belus” is simply Burzum, and this statement should suffice to silence all the black champions of the extremes of the noughties. But “Belus” is also neither better nor worse than Burzum’s works of the nineties: those who have closely followed Burzum's fascinating artistic path will certainly have realized that the various works published, despite their differences, are equivalent, so much so that it is still difficult today to assert with certainty which should be chosen as "The Masterpiece” of his discography. Sure, each of us will have our preferences, but it’s hard to find a common vision, and this is because each of the four albums (I don't consider the crap produced in prison) loses and simultaneously gains something compared to its predecessor.

“Belus,” like the others, is a masterpiece: a masterpiece that adds and removes something from the volumes that preceded it. What does “Belus” remove? “Belus” returns us a more conventionally black Burzum, deprived of that avant-garde thrust, extreme that characterized the early works (after all, there was once a time when history was made, today it's history!). It is also regrettable to note that the voice, leaving behind the very high tones that distinguished it among a thousand others, today settles on a more impersonal scream, though recognizable. But we circle back to the previous discussion: apart from the fact that even vocal cords age, how can you compare a kid in his post-puberty to a now fully-grown man? On reflection, it’s legitimate that in his old age the Count has returned to the origins, to the traditions; many have done it, and among the toughest too, just think of Michael Gira who retreats, after years of dark industrial militancy, to the folk-singer songwriting of Angels of Light. For Vikernes, the origins are classic black metal, the one he himself contributed to creating almost twenty years before. Indeed, few influences can be detected (Celtic Frost? Hellhammer? Bathory?) among the grooves of these 7 tracks (+ intro), so much so that it seems Burzum’s art shapes, compresses, and stretches itself by autistically recycling the same matter as always.

What does “Belus” add? “Belus,” first of all, brings with it a finally conscious lyrical (and musical) concept, emerging overall as the most thoughtful, studied, well-conceived album of the Norwegian artist's career; the album that manages to bring together the greatest number of ideas and solutions in an organic and coherent body. The album, sung entirely in the native language, sinks its claws into Nordic mythology and tells us of the journey into the world of darkness of the pagan god Belus, called, after death, to the final resurrection. And how can we not see in all this the metaphor of our hero’s troubled biography, rediscovering the light of the sun after almost two decades of imprisonment? And we circle back to the same discussion: 17 years is a long time, and in “Belus” seemingly crystallized ideas of 17 years of expressive impossibility take shape: in it, we find a communicative urgency that not always was kept in check, but that finds an organic balance never reached in the past. From this, one deduces Vikernes is ultimately an artist of little worth because, in 17 years, he devised and matured few ideas! Or that we are truly speaking of a great artist whose unwavering identity manages to prevail over the existential layering of such a long span of time.

First of all, the electric guitar returns, handled with a certain ease (ease perhaps due to the amount of fiddling that has kept Vikernes's wrists fluid, as he doesn’t seem like someone who hasn’t touched a guitar for years). After the negligible introduction, the initial riff that inaugurates the album is a unique emotion for those who have waited years for this moment. “Belus' Dod” is indeed the best business card we could receive: it brings to mind the electric epitaph “Filosofem,” presenting itself to our ears as the perfect synthesis between a track like “Burzum,” for its aura of invincible decadence and imposing stride, and one like “Jesu' Tod,” for the angular clattering of the guitar. And then the cymbals: the cymbals that return to slap with tremendous pathos the slow unwinding of a flow of distortions and reverberations that have always been the project’s trademark. Burzum’s music is not anachronistic, nor is it a mere recycling: it is simply timeless, suspended in a dimension of its own, moving with the slow pace of the millennia’s passage. But for those who would be content with a mere revival (and for many, that would have been enough!), the incredible “Glemselens Elv” will be a pleasant surprise: the track is likely among the best ever written by the Count, set to delight, in its tormented 11 minutes, for its epic vein, its prominent bass, its chorus declaimed with extraordinarily clean voice, its “solo” that will send true shivers down the spine of the fans. Perhaps a track with “petit-bourgeois” characteristics, certainly a step back in the descent into the abyss carved in the artistic, stylistic, and existential parabola of our hero, yet so engaging, dynamic in its “continuous” tempo changes, so effective in representing Vikernes' agonizing journey in such a proud and melodically mature guise. Once again, the adepts will have to bring out their trusty notebook and take notes!

The entire album reflects the canons of the spiritual journey of the god Belus and, in parallel, Vikernes’s journey. With the next track, we move on to a further phase of the concept, a more caustic, violent phase, where the path becomes hard and terrible. Perhaps the three tracks that follow constitute the weak link in the chain, at least from the point of view of inspiration and originality; a triptych of songs in which more sustained rhythms are revived, as if to signify the harsh struggle made by the god on the path to resurrection. “Kaimadalthas’ Nedstigning” opens with the frantic rhythms of a drum fired at full speed, and the frenzy of a stuttering thrash riffing, yet retaining the obsessiveness of the most typical Burzumian poetry. Truthfully, the piece will prove to be among the most catchy songs ever written by our hero, enhanced by a chorus stained by dark narration and an irresistible central mid-tempo delivering "a kind of post-punk darkish black-metal sauce.” The barely two minutes of “Sverddans” are a tribute to the youthful listens of Vikernes, being a furious thrash/proto-death à la Possessed, while “Keliohesten” opens with an intense riff not heard since “De Mysteriis dom Sathanas,” thus unconsciously paying tribute to the ancient friend, then bitter enemy, finally the famous victim Euronymous, testifying to the indissoluble (blood) bond that still links the two.

But worth the price of admission are the 20 minutes of the concluding “Morgenrode” and “Belus’ Tilbakekomst (Konklusjon),” through which the tempos cool into a more meditative dimension. But what the hell kind of finale is this? The Count switches off his brain 15 minutes before the end but not the plug: the instrumental tail of the former and the repetitive obsessive theming of the latter are as imaginary as one might expect from a black metal album. In particular, the multiple guitar layers of the Konclusjon mesmerize, hypnotize, revealing the first and only fractures in a spirit that did not seem to be eroded, but hardened, by 17 years of imprisonment. A finale that brings out Vikernes’s desperate love for his preferred instrument, the electric guitar, traveling distorted as in a grisly sonic bacchanal hosted by hypothetical Velvet Underground in a heavily pagan version.

Burzum does not renew itself, therefore, but continues relentlessly to pursue its two/three ideas. It rises again exactly as it was, but aiming for Infinity. Leaving an indelible mark even on the third millennium. And if I opened with Morgan's words, I’ll allow myself to close with a far more learned quote. It’s indeed true: everything had to change so that nothing would change.