Turn off the light. Return to pure passion for a moment. Lose control.
Turn the light back on.
Objects of such pure essence are rare, but above all, one risks not recognizing them by casting merely distracted glances in their direction. Or listening too briefly. The sonic violence is a climax; only by sensing its "growth" is the human ear able to appreciate it. The searing vitriol of the guitar. The hoarse breath of the bass. Jacob Bannon's tormented voice. The words that, though indistinguishable, manage with their blind sound to convey the message for which they were crafted. Torment and pain. Primal rage. Creativity.
Listening to Converge is a mystical journey, an erratic ascent and descent. A carousel of emotions and states, and when shivers seize you, calm returns. And right after, a new thunder.
"Jane Doe" is universally (and rightfully) considered the masterpiece of the Boston band; the compositional skills of Bannon-Ballou & Co. unarguably reach their peak here.
Tracks like "Thaw", "Distance & Meaning", and "The Broken Vow" enthrall with their phases, punctuated by a drum that is as perfect as it is schizoid. Episodes of pure fury like "Phoenix In Flames" and "Concubine" genuinely surprise even the most extreme listener.
The songs unfold into a single overwhelming plot, without dead spots, concluding in the ultimate moment of ecstasy: the eleven minutes of the title track. When the shuffle places this piece before you, it is difficult to fully "get into" it without the rest of the album preceding it. The instinct to cease one's current activities and join Jacob's scream is strong. To unleash all negativity.
It's not metal, it's not hardcore. It's beyond. Some call it noise-core or simply post-hardcore. It's Converge, it's indescribable; and in the XXI century, it is immensely satisfying to say that something unheard-of has been born again.
Perhaps the unaware passerby sometimes thought they sensed a care home? I was listening to "Jane Doe". And I was shaking my fists in the air.
It's cardiac music, no doubt about it.
This CD is alive. It speaks to you. Caresses your face, but hides a blade between its fingers.
Jane Doe screams whispering to our ears. To our brains. To our souls.
The only right thing is silence. The silence that during the 45 minutes of duration you will never hear for more than a second, but after those 45 minutes will be infinite, perpetual, deafening, annoying.
Jacob Bannon screams in an incomprehensible manner, not of this world.