Death In June
Rose Clouds Of Holocaust

A difficult album to evaluate, this "Rose Clouds of Holocaust". It revisits the exact sounds of the beautiful "But, What Ends When the Symbols Shatter?", but with less inspiration, perhaps the least innovative and surprising album of Death in June's diverse discography. For many, it was a pleasant confirmation. For others, a weary repetition of an already tested formula. For others still, this album represents a first sign of the impending artistic decline of Douglas P., increasingly trapped in the cage of clichés he himself forged.

For me, this album is perhaps the most sincere and spontaneous incarnation of Douglas P.'s art.

In 1995, the year this album was released, he seems to have definitively left behind the dark times of the post-"Wall of Sacrifice" period. "But, What Ends…" in 1992 had delivered a completely renewed artist, strong with a new awareness of himself and the surrounding reality. Many knots seemed to have been untied, and this resolution process was reflected in the surreal tones and the disenchanted detachment attitude that characterized that album.

Once permanently relocated to Australia, Douglas P. seems to have found a new balance. And while the world of art has always given us the best fruits where there is suffering, anger, frustration, and neurosis, "Rose Clouds of Holocaust" has the merit of being appreciated even as it constitutes the testimony of a relatively serene period for him. And it is precisely this aspect that perhaps frightens the most: even in his calmest and relaxed version, an artist like Douglas P. is much more extreme than many others who, apparently more malicious, turn their ostentatious nihilism into nothing but a pose.

Further away from the mental fog and chaos that characterized the production of the eighties, even more detached from the world and its vicissitudes than he was in "But, What Ends…", the Douglas P. of "Rose Clouds of Holocaust" is simply a man with a guitar who sings us his songs. Songs that are imbued with the moods of a more canonical singer-songwriter style: the entity Death in June, strong with a solid and well-defined identity, evidently no longer needs to make its message explicit by resorting to those expedients that were forged to build that identity. No more noise assaults and military fanfares, then: "Rose Clouds of Holocaust", even more minimal than its predecessor, represents the most evolved dimension of Douglas P.'s apocalyptic vision, as if the End, after being perceived, endured, and faced, is definitively accepted. A point of view that no longer leaves room for dismay but only for contemplation.

Douglas P's art, therefore, no longer appears to us as an exorcism of interior ghosts, but a lucid dissertation on them: precisely by virtue of the balance and security gained, he can finally look back, view with detachment those ghosts that had tormented him so much, and finally grab them by the neck.

The result is the most paradoxical album of Death in June: musically the most harmless and lyrically most ruthless, the least apocalyptic and at the same time capable of embodying the quintessence of apocalyptic folk. Yes, because by now Pearce no longer plays apocalyptic folk, Pearce is apocalyptic folk. And it cannot be otherwise, even if his music is no longer crossed by those existential lacerations that in the past had provided the necessary push for his art to bloom and take a well-defined shape. And "Rose Clouds of Holocaust" is a manifesto of proud intellectual independence, and it is disturbing to note how in the paradigmatic opener "God's Golden Sperm" dark blasphemous verses are juxtaposed with what is probably the sweetest melody ever to appear on a Death in June record. And in this contrast lies the essence of the work.

The album consists of an intro ("Lord Winter") and nine pumblee ballads in typical Death in June style. Everything is very essential, as you can imagine, but the magic of listening lies in the ethereal, almost fantastic atmospheres that give the work an aura of dreamlike intangibility. Tracks like the already mentioned "God's Golden Sperm", "Omen-Filled Season" and "Symbols of the Sun", are terribly simple and yet they please, fascinate, and shine with an inexplicable magnetism that can only be attributed to the artist's flair. Tibet's friend makes his usual appearance in "Jerusalem the Black", without however reaching the peaks of intensity achieved in the past. The best shots, in my opinion, are fired in the second part of the album: "Luther's Army" is a beautiful and poignant ballad with twilight tones, where the most passionate and melancholic Pearce emerges. "13 Years of Carrion", another moment of strong dreamy suggestion, is graced by the soft sound of Campbell Finley's trumpet, the ethereal warbles of Rose McDowall, and the delicate chimes of a xylophone, creating the sensation of being lulled as if we were aboard a boat rocking on the rippled surface of a placid nighttime sea.

The dreamy "The Accidental Protégé", impressive in its intertwining of guitars, piano chimes, and accordion, is certainly one of the high points of the new phase of Death in June, but the absolute masterpiece of the album is the famous title track, perhaps the most well-known track of Death in June. This song is not only worth purchasing the album; this song is the declination of the entire genre: the metaphysical counterpoint of the keyboards, the ruthless push of a devastating arpeggio, the dark and imperious voice of Douglas P., who truly seems to be speaking to us from outside the universe. As usual, Pearce proves to be a master at evoking intense visions and emotions with the least possible effort, an artist who in three and a half minutes, and with disarming simplicity, is able to say a lot, as had already happened with "Fall Apart" (from "Wall of Sacrifice").

The dark environmental phrasings of the closing "Lifebooks", where Douglas P.'s seraphic whisper intertwines with Tibet's restless declamation, conclude the work with the cry "It's a dream, it's a dream, it's a dream, wake up! wake up!" It was all a dream; Douglas P.'s voice slipped into the recesses of our unconscious from who knows what crevice and transmitted visions from another world. The eyelids flutter restlessly before the vain light of the day, a light that instead of clarifying, dazzles and confuses ideas. It's time to wake up.

But what is the dream and what is the reality?