Burzum
Umskiptar

It's the usual question: is the glass half full or half empty?

Do we imagine Varg Vikernes sitting on his good straw chair, isolated in his good farm located in the Norwegian lands, a family man, with his electric guitar in hand and a tome of Norse mythology on the bedside table? Or the ex-convict hunted by creditors who releases three albums in less than three years, a collection of recycled old pieces, and a book to settle his good debts?

The usual glass half full or half empty: music that evolves and reaches a new balance, or prolix music, poor in ideas, another bad record thrown into the music market to trick the usual fools who would buy a Burzum album just for the name on the cover?

Thus comes out the latest musical effort of Burzum, and this at least is a fact. As is evident that this “Umskiptar” is entirely sung in Norse and is inspired by the Scandinavian poem “Voluspá”. And that it brings with it significant innovations, at least from a formal point of view.

First point: the theme of change (“Umskiptar” means “metamorphosis” and the concept develops on this theme, intending to speak to us about the transformations of Nature, and therefore of Man, and therefore of Man’s Life).

Since 1991, with the release of the “Black Album”, the metallic universe has had to confront the theme of change. And nothing has been the same since the release of the “Black Album”: to change or to remain pure? This has been the futile question that bands and fans have been asking themselves for twenty years now. Metal hasn’t been the same after the greatest (and Metallica in the eighties were the greatest) decided to streamline their sound and capture larger portions of the paying audience. But since then, how many great bands have we lost? How many of them have ended up changing their skin unnaturally? And how many others have prematurely halted their evolutionary path to defend the faith and not disappoint their most conservative followers? And what does Burzum have to do with all this? Not a damn thing because Vikernes, in his stubborn isolation, first mental rather than physical (certainly the imprisonment helped) has remained the same, and as already mentioned in my review of “Belus”, even with differences (mainly dictated by elements of an anagraphic order), Vikernes continues to recycle himself, remodeling his artistic matter in an autistic path that certainly does not favor confrontation and exchange with the outside world. Vikernes changes while remaining himself, and in this instance, his isolation has preserved him untouched by the stupid disputes that have plagued the evolution/involution of metal music for the last twenty years.

Almost twenty years ago, ours helped to create a new musical genre, also laying the foundations for different and interesting developments within black metal itself, but I bet if you ask him what he thinks of all those who have taken inspiration from his work, he probably wouldn’t be able to name two in a row. Tell him that for several years there has been a trend called depressive black metal that has sprung and blossomed through bands referring only and exclusively to him: assuming he knows what is being talked about, he will surely tell you that he has nothing to do with these people.

And this for one reason in particular: his music does not preach annihilation and essentially (hear, hear) carries a positive message (if by positive one means the message of music that intends to perform an act of abstraction, dissociate the listener from their bourgeois frustrations, and generate the vision of a different world, different from the one we live in). Particularly in his post-prison incarnation, Burzum’s music becomes proud and epic: it is not derelict music, it does not preach abandonment and renunciation, but it promotes tenacity, it could almost be defined as utopian, as it emancipates itself from the status quo and looks towards a future in which, after recovering the past (that of pagan traditions) and a return to Nature, Man’s spiritual resurrection may prevail. On which sociological principles this resurrection should occur and towards what kind of world society it should lead is certainly not the focus of my reflection (which does not intend to dwell on the merit of the positions assumed by the artist, positions that I do not share and from which I firmly distance myself). The sense of my discussion is that Vikernes’ music is combative, epic, indomitable, visionary, solitary, like its creator, and that this music becomes more than anything else a testament to proud independence, crossing the boundaries of self-referencing. If you ask him what inspires his art, Vikernes will probably remind you that his influences remain tied to classical music and European folklore, even if his work speaks the language of heavy metal: its grammar, the vocabulary at its disposal are the same, what changes, of course, is the perspective, the desire to explore new areas of his being, and the modalities of expressing his artistic message. This happened in “Belus”, this was confirmed in “Fallen” and this repeats once again with “Umskiptar” amplifying the moods and intuitions barely sketched out in his immediate predecessors to drown them once again in the sonic rarefaction of an already post-black metal masterpiece like “Filosofem” was.

It would be nice to be able to see Vikernes simply as a poor fool, but unfortunately, years of media exposure make every analysis difficult. But if we wanted to see him just as a poor fool, a crazed alien, like Syd Barrett (God forgive me for the comparison!), we would then realize something pure and simple (something which even the most extremist fans of the artist seem not to understand): that Vikernes is a poet.

Vikernes is a poor fool, and you can tell by the things he says or the photos he takes. He is a fool because he is dull-witted, because he doesn’t understand a damn thing, but above all because even the character he has constructed doesn’t seem to understand a damn thing. But beneath that thick skull beats a heart apparently, and Vikernes remains a poet, a poet of discomfort, and perhaps that’s why we’re still talking about him even though he’s a big thick skull. Stubborn it was said, and indeed his growth doesn’t evolve by enriching itself with elements gleaned from the surrounding world, but rather proceeds through a progressive focus on what from time to time appears to be his emotional matter.

But even if he appears today dressed differently, the truth is that nothing has changed. Oh my God Burzum no longer plays black metal!, I have heard shouted from many quarters. The paradox is that instead “Umskiptar” is still black metal, because if it’s true that the times slow down considerably and that overall there is a greater use of clean vocals, the riffing reaffirming more than ever an identity born and developed within black metal (albeit in a post perspective, which has always been a prerogative of the project from its origins). But even if we absurdly wanted to admit that this record is not black metal (a discussion, by the way, rather useless), little would change, indeed, we could almost overturn our initial claim and argue that Burzum never was black metal. Because in one case or another Burzum is always Burzum, a singer-songwriter, and “Umskiptar” is a new essay described in the atemporal dimension Vikernes seems to vegetate in from always and in which lately he seems to want to remain enclosed: the novelty is only formal and stands, on one side, in the rediscovery of Scandinavian majesty Quorthon (since “Umskiptar” draws heavily from Bathory of the "Hammerheart"/"Twilight of the Gods" era) and, on the other side, in the achievement of a sparse folklore, steeped in paganism, which fortunately is not even remotely comparable to the baroque rubbish of albums released from prison.

But even in a de-electrified form, Vikernes' hand remains always the same.

Second point: Vikernes’ hand. Maybe he is not even aware of it, but when his hand turns the knob of the guitar volume clockwise and electricity materializes, with the advent of electricity an Epiphany occurs and suddenly and magically we are catapulted into the well-known Burzumian dimension: “Jóln” swoops down on our ears like a lava flow of distortions, repeated and obsessive riffs as per the best tradition, the proverbial slapped cymbals and a thunderous apocalyptic recital that brings us into the concept. In the next verse, solid drumming and a distorted voice (no longer the characteristic castrated dog yelp of the golden times, but a hoarse and sly whisper still attributable to the empyrean of extreme metal) break in, and it is already clear that Vikernes, though in a more melodic guise, does not abandon his modus operandi consisting of two/three riffs per song alternating until exhaustion. But the robust restart at the end, which reprises the sharp and sizzling loop (almost à la Pulp Fiction) employed during the chorus, reminds us of another thing: that the Count is a master and we are very sorry for the others.

“Alfadanz” opens with a poorly strummed piano line, but overall the piece has a good kick and is liked for its laborious progress, as if the warrior (to use an image dear to the artist) was floundering in the mud, up to the intense central break of arpeggiated guitar that explains to us once again, silencing everyone, that class is not just water. Is this not magic? But the question to ask is essentially another, and it is the following: is the undeniable prolixity of the product balanced by the flashes that the Count knows how to sprinkle along the exhausting lengths of the sixty-five minutes of electrified tedium that is this “Umskiptar”?

Third point, then: the prolixity of the Count. Lightning-fast answer: many things, nice and good can be said about the Count’s music, but one can certainly be asserted with force, that is, the Count’s music has never been easy. And that his music has always been boring. Even take the masterpieces of the nineties, so celebrated today: weren’t they also blatant blows to the balls? Excessive minimalism, little rhythmical variety, marathon compositions repeating the same themes to asphyxiation: it is said that precisely these, along with evocative melodies and ancestral atmospheres, were the founding elements of the Burzumian formula, then taken up by a multitude of admirers. But if we liked it then, and still doesn’t displease us, the reason for such magnetism in Vikernes' music certainly lies in one reason: and this reason is that Vikernes is a poet. And that the magic that in the end his compositional streak always knows how to dispense is well worth music that surely loves to linger excessively on the same settings, without too much variation. But this “Umskiptar” has indeed too many variations: it has a voice that often settles on clean, it has pieces that often show developments, it has, for example, the imposing initial riff of “Hit Helga Tré”, which doesn’t even let the previous track fade out to break in with magnificent violence, halfway between the most exhausted Celtic Frost and the most funereal Black Sabbath. The nine tracks present here (excluding intro and outro) do indeed have a reason, change within themselves, as they change in their succession: a path that will proceed, among the clamor of electric guitars, to the reflective songs of the second half of the album.

Two very short pieces serve as a turning point around which the work makes its change of direction: “Æra”, the most violent of the lot, doesn’t abandon the doom orientation (but however, the piercing scream of fifteen seconds materializes precisely when the percussion decides to be silent), to then leave space for the spoken introduction of “Heidr”, a quirky intermezzo in which rough bass lines à la De Mayo and vitriolic guitar outbursts alternate. The change in pace occurs with “Valgaldr”, which in the first part recovers the moods of the beginning of the album, but in the second abandons itself to the dissonances of an infinite arpeggio, a platform on which Vikernes’ crooning finally takes off, soon joined by evocative choirs.

What follows will be a laborious journey towards the light and the concluding trilogy of tracks shows now a Vikernes in the guise of a poised singer-songwriter: “Galgvidr” opens the doors to a pagan ritual in which electric and acoustic phases alternate in a hypnotic spiral with a mystical stride. The approach between Burzum and Blood Axis, which I always dreamed of, is taking place. Too bad that to ruin the party comes “Surtr Sunnan”: so positioned in ninth place, a track that adds nothing to what has been said before cannot but weigh everything down and provoke a yawn even to those who had locked their jaws with a padlock. The Count's proud recital will then dominate to the end, while electricity will progressively give way to arpeggiated guitars that will find their apotheosis in the immense “Gullaldr” (lasting more than ten minutes), the folk-ballad that more than any other piece here collected knows how to push Burzum’s music outside the boundaries of known black metal: a piece that nevertheless teaches us one thing, the usual, that the acoustic Vikernes in truth is not at all different from the electric one. His is indeed only an operation of stripping down the sounds, but the hand remains the same as always, and proof is the fact, that if we try to electrify the piece with our imagination, we won’t be far from the solemn evolution of a piece like “Dunkelheit” (the memorable opening track of “Filosofem”).

The album closes in the same way it opened, with the slow beat of percussion (which among other things had disappeared for three or four tracks) and the concluding ramblings of the narrative voice, leaving us, tired and ecstatic at the same time, with a disturbing question: masterpiece or colossal nonsense?

In short, the usual question of the glass half full or half empty.