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Rating: Los Angeles was deconstructed tonight. Stripped of every inert construction and then slowly reassembled by the architects of its own destructive wave. A sizzling evening that begins around 7:00 PM as the Utah-based band SubRosa takes the stage at the Roxy Theatre in West Hollywood. With their faint whispers of female voices, they manage to spectrally set the tone for a night that will become a tortuous and perpetual atmospheric trip. The violins repeatedly come to prominence in the viscous magma of doom-flavored riffs that slow down and make the air rarefied. The audience's response is more than positive; my friend even tells me she's there just for them. The melodies are often stained by a voice that slowly transforms from soft to vigorous, determined to harness the ruinous debris created by the relentless hammering of the drums. SubRosa is a sunset that, as it descends, gives space to the starry sky, but they are not yet capable of unleashing the apocalyptic scenario that would soon erupt uncontrollably. There isn’t even time for a chat about Chelsea Wolfe’s upcoming live show before the raging vortex of sludge and post-metal is about to hit us again. Like an acidic storm pouring copiously from a dense sky, Minsk arrives. The force of the impact is immense. The glimpses of twilight and folk scenes painted by SubRosa are literally swept away by a wall of sound that devours without distinction, first the annihilating growl and then incorporates within its belly the instrumental suites. An alternation of arpeggios that opens to liquid and expanded scenarios and course changes where one can lose oneself in a millisecond, given the wild unpredictability. When Minsk embarks on the most earthquake-prone path, the sound becomes imbued with ferocity and blind fury. Real gallops are created that offer no second chances, leaving those still lulled by SubRosa's melancholy petrified and astonished. The leitmotif of the evening has been instilled. If SubRosa had forged a dramatic but pathos-laden glimpse, Minsk takes that emotionality and deconstructs it into spaces serving the most visceral post-metal. When their performance ends, there’s no comforting landscape left. There's just dust, upon which the evening's protagonists must rise like monoliths: Cult of Luna. Now, it’s been a pleasure sharing this concert with you, but it ends here, because what will follow in the nearly hour and a half performance is indescribable, but, well, having come this far, it's my duty to reveal it all.
The Roxy is plunged into complete darkness when Cult of Luna takes the stage. There's no light. No sign of life. Only darkness enveloping the small flickering LEDs of the equipment. The hype, even among the audience, is sky-high. The feeling is that of entering a surreal cinema, where the Swedish group meticulously directs the entire narrative arc. For indeed, seeing a concert by the guys from Umea is a totalizing experience, like being enchanted in front of a dystopian storyteller. A slight haze immerses the stage in a desolate atmosphere and it is there, amidst the veil of artificial fog, that one perceives the presence of Johannes Persson, the deus ex machina, who takes on the burden of narrating the history of Cult of Luna. The cold, glacial lights, with lasers that uncontrollably contort upon themselves as if faced with an alarm, herald the echoing of "Light Chaser", which can be considered the introduction to the first chapter of Vertikal. The psychedelic synth propels the audience into the world of Metropolis and Fritz Lang. One is transported into another dimension and Persson lashes out with his deep growl against the martiality of the drum set. Or rather, the drum sets, since Cult of Luna presents with dual drumming (drummer/percussionist) just to underline and highlight that three guitars are not enough to topple Los Angeles. Additions are needed that with a robotic synchronicity can detonate the musical narratives of Cult of Luna. The weapon is ready for assault, the melodies are poisoned and delve into the most utopian recesses of a mechanized world. It is "I: The Weapon" that reveals the dual nature of the Swedes, so methodical and sharp in penetrating the soft flesh with the searing riffs with which, in horror and social inequality, the city of Metropolis is built. Cult of Luna are post-metal scientists, completely aware of their capabilities, and the level of transport during the thunderous escalations or the sharply airy architectures is total. Persson has hardcore punk roots and it shows, cresting beyond the amplifiers multiple times and rising with his Gibson. Meanwhile, behind him, the hallucinatory vision of a universe made of mental journeys unfolds through the dialogues between the two drummers. A fusion ready to fit together every moment of the long suites made in Cult of Luna. It is a continuous chase between shadows, dark places, and landscapes where humanity remains paralyzed, falling under the echoes of distant and haunting melodies. They are also left paralyzed at the end of "Ghost Trail" when the sound flow abruptly halts. The lights go out and Johannes roars with all the strength in his body: "The King." The arrival of the King is imminent. The avalanche of obsessive riffs is unleashed abrasively, and the drums duel, accelerating toward a cataclysm of which we are all witnesses. Imagine the sonic power of Cult of Luna on record; live, they triple it. The roars of ecstasy are obvious and well-deserved.
Unreal perceptions take shape and substance. Close your eyes and be absorbed by the ghetto of Metropolis. Silently, the reverberations of "Vicarious Redemption" begin to form, and with the help of the e-bow, its metallic sinuosity is amplified. Fragile chimes and distorted echoes of synthesizers resounding from one side of the Roxy to the other ensure the materialization of colliding worlds, under the relentless weight of machinery and creaks that squeeze a compromised society. An arctic wind opens to the structures elegantly conceived by the minds of the Swedes. Johannes assumes the role of a prophet who is as refined in releasing riffs, conversing with Kihlberg and Olofsson, as he is voracious and ruthless in delivering the harshest core that shines through in the thorny rhythms of an "Eternal Kingdom." The detail that made me love Cult of Luna years ago is their ability to take their time, speeding up nothing. In their compositions, there is the right balance and everything is metered with painstaking patience. Everything is unfolded with a fluidity of execution that knows no interruptions, so much so that there is no interaction with the audience. It is a continuum of disappearing memories and kaleidoscopic landscapes that are filtered and regenerated with evocative garments that make you sink into the most challenging places of your own synapses. That’s what the cerebral nature of "Dark City, Dead Man" is for.
The cacophonous dissonances of "Disharmonia" seal the last legacy that Cult of Luna wants to craft for California. A final journey along the skyscrapers that climb mercilessly, and an oneiric magnetism that can encircle the Roxy Theatre one last time before the Swedes disappear into a cosmic void. It is precisely the turn of "In Awe Of" which with its words better encapsulates than I could what it means to witness a live show by Cult of Luna: "On my knees, mesmerized; In awe of. Solarised. Acceptance before I return to the stars." The ethereal harmonies break and the dizzying rises and falls conclude, with an introspective dimension that has more than once offered enchanted and hypnotized glances at these seven Swedes who managed to bring Fritz Lang and all the other stories that have consecrated "Somewhere Along the Highway" and "Eternal Kingdom" as unshakable and indisputable realities in the post-metal scene. Chapeau.
SETLIST:
- Light Chaser
- Ghost Trail
- I: The Weapon
- Vicarious Redemption
- Eternal Kingdom
- Dark City, Dead Man
- Disharmonia
- In Awe Of
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