Death In June
The Rule of Thirds

Not a country for old men...

 The now fifty-two-year-old Douglas P. returns to the scene after four years, the four years following the release of the controversial "Alarm Agents," co-written with the indomitable Boyd Rice: an intermediary album that failed to provide clear indications regarding the future steps of Death in June, nor did it comfort the fans in front of a seemingly unstoppable artistic decline.
 Rumors were circulating for some time, actually, about a solo return of the good Pearce, and a work finally purged of the questionable collaborations that had contaminated Death in June's recent past. The expectations (as well as the fears of a crushing disappointment) were understandably high: an album of rebirth or definitive consecration in the mud?

 I've read very bad things about this "The Rule of Thirds", seen by many as the worst episode ever of Death in June; I've read ugly things, ugly because plausible and well-considered.
I even thought about disregarding this latest release, but then I couldn't do it: I told many to go to hell, Robert Smith, Nick Cave, Johan Edlund, but Douglas P. no!, I couldn't do it, it was evidently not yet time to abandon him, I had to necessarily follow him into decline, until the end, categorically.
So I prepared for the worst.
Well, can I express my personal opinion? The humble (and not at all objective) opinion of a die-hard Death in June fan? I didn't mind this album at all: it certainly doesn't make me shout for a miracle, but neither does it seem that bad or worthy of being demonized as they say around.

 There are several reasons to like "The Rule of Thirds".

First of all, it's an honest album, and not only: it's an irresponsible, selfish, courageous album in its disregard for carrying such a prestigious brand; an album detached from our times, alien to fashions, musical scenes, even to the cultures and sub-cultures that teem within the so-called grey area. It is essentially an album born of an artist who decides to take his own autism to excess, resulting from an isolation first suffered and then sought. Pearce today appears more than ever as a ridiculous, grotesque character, out of this world, out of sync with the surrounding reality, a blurred image (not coincidentally the album title has to do with a specific photographic technique), a figure who, from the confines of his bunker dug into the rocks of his land of exile, remote Australia, simply reinforces his visions, playing for himself and not for others, unheard perhaps, misunderstood probably, like the speaker of a clandestine radio broadcast that we perceive as an annoying mumbling coming from the broken speaker of an old radio.
"The Rule of Thirds" is thus the unhoped-for and moving reclaiming by the artist of his creation, but also the work of Douglas P.'s senility, a work that inexorably follows the path of a descending artistic parabola that seems to have no end. More than constituting an essay on the decay of man and his world, "The Rule of Thirds" is decadence that decays and falls apart, denying itself and turning into a jest, putting itself in a condition of self-referentiality that is beyond any judgment (and any disappointment): for many, "The Rule of Thirds" could represent the confirmation of Douglas P.'s artistic paralysis, for others (who, like me, know well that Death in June, in a certain way, died in 1995 and, alas, will never return) "The Rule of the Thirds" is the umpteenth personal and artistic testament of a troubled journey, of the solitary path of a man who made values like integrity, dignity, and absolute intransigence towards any compromise the pillars of his artistic existence.

 From a stylistic point of view, the work in question marks a clear return to the folk sounds of the masterpieces of the nineties, resuming the discourse abandoned precisely with the seminal "Rose Clouds of Holocaust" (the last work that, not coincidentally, saw Pearce alone with his guitar) and further advancing the process of simplification and stripping down of sounds, thus to the extent that it is probably no longer appropriate to speak of apocalyptic folk in the strict sense.
The new creation by Douglas P. moves instead on the coordinates of an isolationist singer-songwriter style rarely heard in recent years (thirteen ballads of voice and guitar sporadically interspersed with dialogues presumably extracted from movies). "The Rule of Thirds" is, in some aspects, a dive into the folk singer-songwriter style typical of the second half of the sixties, a return to the origins, to the purity of atmospheres at times surreal, at times sunny, at times sentimental, often reminiscent of certain compositions tending towards the bucolic of those Pink Floyd already orphaned of Syd Barrett and not yet burdened by Roger Waters' boundless ego.

 Pearce thus churns out the Sunday morning record, and certainly, this must not have been at all appreciated by many of his supporters used to very different settings.
In reality, this 2008 album represents a long-anticipated operation: that of final detachment from certain clichés best left to the newcomers who today populate the scene. But beware, the industrial soul is not entirely dormant: certainly, we find it reduced to a mere accompaniment role, yet for those willing to prick up their ears, it will be possible to encounter an underlying infrastructure of counterpoints, effects, and sound manipulations that enrich, without harming it, the album's acoustic setup, bare and minimal indeed, but not at all neglected in terms of sound arrangement.

 The real novelty of "The Rule of Thirds" is thus the overall mood of the album, a sunny album, warm as a sunny winter afternoon, permeated by an unprecedented sense of relaxation for Death in June (except for certain playful moments that found a home in the much-maligned "All Pigs Must Die").
Think of the initial trio: the sly opener "The Glass Coffin", accompanied by the chirping of birds, the lively "Forever Loves Decay", animated by a semi-imperceptible rhythmic pulse, the excellent "Jesus, Junk and Jurisdiction" (one of the album's most captivating moments) opened by a bizarre "pa... pa pa paaa," clumsily rendered by Pearce's unmistakable tenor timbre. And how not to mention "Idolatry", "Good Mourning Sun", or the title track itself (another successful piece, especially for the novel vocal solutions), sixties anthems worthy of the carefree Simon & Garfunkel, naturally drowned in the most black pitch and trapped in a tragic slow-motion!

What strikes about "The Rule of Thirds" is, in general, the disorienting effect that returns the squeaking of this seemingly serene folk and Pearce's vocal style, nonetheless indebted to the dark tradition, and the inevitably decadent vein that animates the lyrics (very beautiful overall, always sharp in their bitter irony and devastating in making explicit what remain the typical obsessions and themes of Pearce's poetics: the sense of incurable loneliness, the condition of a perennial exile, the betrayed pride, the contemplation of the overarching spiritual decline, which is joined by a sense of resignation, nostalgia, and self-pity linked to one's biographical condition).  

 Finally, it's a real pleasure to savor Pearce's firm and imposing voice and to note that his vocal charisma has remained intact over the years: that monolithic-monumental syllable enunciation so characteristic it becomes inimitable, that reverberated voice, blurred, as if exhaled from under the ruins of a world in decay, that detachment that denies contact not only with the earthly world but also with the artist's own soul (is this perhaps the enormous step forward made by "The Rule of Thirds"?).
Words suspended in the void, far from the object as from the subject: a voice incapable of conveying emotions, joy, pain, but only black sarcasm, disillusionment, the echo of a now dormant malaise that left scars behind.

It's clear Douglas P. is better in the small, considering that when dragging out compositions for long, the compositional fatigue reigning a bit everywhere becomes more evident. Therefore, little gems like "The Perfume of Traitors" and "My Last Europa Kiss" are appreciated, as brief as they are intense.

However, true masterpieces are not lacking, and it's a shame to note that only towards its finale does the album show signs of recovery. In particular, to salvage the fate of a fluctuating and, at times, inconsistent work are precisely the two pieces placed at the end, the only ones capable of evoking the ghost of the Death in June that was: "Takeyya", while not deviating much from the other tracks, seems to hold something magical, that indefinable ingredient that over the years has made Death in June's music special, at the expense of simplicity and puerile execution of the compositions (the demented stuttering that accompanies the song's refrain at the end is goosebumps).
The palm of the most unusual track of the album goes to "Let Go" (the only track featuring an outside contribution - the guitar of producer Dave Lokan): a dreamy, impalpable, and sweet lullaby in its advance, yet capable of weighing like a stone on our hearts due to the spiritual testament moods it knows how to bring with it.

 All these arguments cannot, however, significantly lift the judgment of an album that remains overall verbose, difficult to digest, stubborn in tirelessly presenting the same solutions. The 48-minute duration is ultimately too much: evident, at the end of the listening, is the conviction that with adequate cuts, the whole would have benefited (and I think of "Truly Be", "Their Deception", and "My Rhyne Atrocity", rather anonymous pieces which could have easily been dispensed with).

 What to say in conclusion: an album to be handled with extreme caution, an album not to expect great things from, an album to lie on without expectations. And if, in the final review, I have to ultimately give advice, my advice is: do not buy this album unless you've accounted for a necessary sense of disappointment and have nevertheless gone through the masterpieces of the eighties and nineties.
However, buy it if this spring catches you inside and you feel like loving. Buy it if you don't recognize yourself in what surrounds you if you feel old in this country that is not for old men and need a friendly voice.
As often necessary for a fan to grow with the artist, sometimes it is necessary to grow old together. If not die beside them...

 A coffin never forgets a man
A coffin never forgives a man