Coil
The Ape Of Naples

November 13, 2004, a sad day for Coil fans: John Balance dies prematurely at the age of 42. And the irony of fate is that, after a life of excess and indulgence, his life is cut short on an ordinary afternoon due to a stupid household accident: a fall down the stairs that tragically proves fatal.

Providing some solace for this shocking loss is the posthumous release of this "The Ape of Naples," dated 2005. And like all posthumous albums, "The Ape of Naples" must be approached with caution and considered for what it is: an incomplete work. That said, if I may speak as a die-hard fan of the band, I can finally say it: this album is beautiful.

There is, first of all, an emotional value to consider: this is truly the last chance to hear Balance's voice, the last chance to hear Coil's music. "The Ape of Naples" thus turns out to be, for those who love the band, a real treasure, a precious treasure to be religiously guarded. But there are also objective reasons that make us appreciate it: despite the fact that recordings from different periods and played by different artists are collected here, Peter Christopherson's meticulous work in production gives the entire work a surprising sense of homogeneity, both stylistically and in atmosphere, as if it were a true album and not just a simple commemorative collection. The last but not the least, the tracks: there are indeed some good tracks, I'd say a good half, that place themselves among the best things the Coil have written in their career. And if here and there the inevitable work of copy and paste makes itself felt, if some episodes may appear more as filler than anything else, if the attention to detail that has always characterized the band's work is missing, so be it: "The Ape of Naples" is the most beautiful thing we could have asked for from a band now dead and buried.

Paradoxically, what makes this album special is Balance's vocal performance, imbued with an unprecedented intimacy and fragility, such that there is almost the impression that the artist is singing his own death. And if his ghost haunts throughout the duration of the platter, repeatedly enchanting us, the music, which aligns with the melancholic and occasionally sacred tones that the situation requires, is certainly no less. Thigpaulsandra's keyboards inevitably recall the lunar atmospheres of the two volumes of "Musick to Play in the Dark," while Danny Hyde's touch, already present in the masterpiece "Love’s Secret Domain," refines the work with delicious and sophisticated injections of minimal electronics. Finally, it is worth noting the presence of the illustrious Trent Reznor, with whom the band had recorded material in the mid-1990s, material that finally sees the light.

The initial triptych is tear-jerking. The opener "Fire of the Mind", prophetic in its opening verse ("Does Death come alone, or with eager reinforcements?"), acquires special significance precisely because of the sad event it is called to celebrate, and it already manages to represent the mood of the entire work and the artistic direction the band would soon embark on: the last Coil appear to us oriented towards a more simple and minimal sound, more played we might say, a sound permeated by dreamlike atmospheres and suggestive existential explorations. The angelic choirs and airy keyboards, which animate the song, are the ideal accompaniment for Balance's poignant singing, at the peak of his expressiveness. The following "The Last Amethyst Deceiver" revisits the classic "Amethyst Deceiver" tinged with dreamy intimacy: in its nine tranquil minutes, it takes us directly back to the expanded soundscapes of the double "Musick to Play in the Dark," and constitutes a metaphysical flight through restless skies, where Balance’s disenchanted recitation seems to come, painfully, directly from the afterlife. Finally, "Tatooed Man" sketches, with its circus and vaguely southern settings, a surreal landscape where the quirky rhythm of the accordion perfectly matches Balance's visionary singing. One of the pinnacles of Coil’s art, now freed from the more bastardly industrial dimension and definitively placed at the center of a crossroads where synth-pop, singer-songwriter, gothic ambient, and avant-garde intersect.

Listening, unfortunately, continues a bit erratically, between inspired episodes and others unquestionably less successful, which inevitably dilute the content of this album that lasts a full 65 minutes and which, between us, could have been shorter. "Triple Sun", for example, is an admirable foray into vaguely dark wave sounds, but by the end of the track, which fades a bit, there's still doubt that it was, although superb, a piece of collage. The same impression for "It’s in my Blood", the most unruly track of the collection, which combines a solid industrial base with Balance's hysterical howls, in my opinion somewhat out of place, considering the intimate tones that pervade the rest of the album. "I Don’t Get It" is an instrumental not particularly incisive, which, amidst insane noise and trumpet passages, nonetheless retrieves the band’s experimental attitude, somewhat sidelined for this occasion. The syncopated rhythm of "Heaven’s Blade" immediately brings us back to a more linear dimension, and it must be said that the situation improves thanks mainly to Balance’s voice, which continues to bring life to tracks that might otherwise appear quite weak and overly simple. As indeed happens in the beautiful "Cold Cell", another gem of sophisticated synth-pop, in which the airy keyboards excellently support Balance's desolate singing. "Teenage Lightning 2005" (a new version of the classic present on "Love’s Secret Domain") is instead pure nostalgia. Between the moving and the amusing, noteworthy is the impromptu "outtake" at the end of the track, where a very tipsy Balance bursts out laughing, creating a precious moment of hallucinatory silliness retrieved from who knows what archive, perhaps the best way to remember the deceased artist.

The work takes off again in the finale with a truly stratospheric duo: the harrowing "Amber Rain" is a descent into the abyss of the most cosmic and universal sadness, while the concluding "Going Up" delivers the most ascetic and spiritual Coil, an ascending movement that in the intense finale is adorned with the divine evolutions of Francos Testory's boyish soprano voice, creating a truly exceptional emotional crescendo, the best farewell Balance could have hoped for.

An experience that is bitter, this "The Ape of Naples," called upon to achieve an impossible feat: to fill an unfillable void. But like a protruding rock along a precipice, it is the only grip we have to avoid falling. And we must hold onto it, willing or not. "The Ape of Naples" is a work of undeniable charm, as well as an honest, sincere, and heartfelt album, which has the merit of not descending into cheap sentimentality, self-references, and empty and pandering self-celebrations. An album that, with all its flaws, perfectly ascends to the role of tribute to a crucial artist in the recent history of music. And for this, we must thank Peter Christopherson, who, with affection and professionalism, managed to craft the perfect farewell to a lifelong friend.