Impaled Nazarene
Suomi Finland Perkele

THE REVIEW

Interior.
Painted stone walls. Aisles, vaults, wooden benches.
Dim light filtering through tall stained glass windows.
Composed and monotonous whispers; clouds of incense floating in the air.

Footsteps, then the sound of knees on a synthetic leather cushion.
The confessional grate slides along poorly oiled rails.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen"

Forgive me, Father, for I have greatly sinned.
No, please, don't interrupt me, or I wouldn't have the courage to speak. You don't know how much it costs me to be here today.
You see, Father, I may seem like a respectable person to you. If you saw me patiently standing in line at the cinema around the corner for the latest incredibly boring Almodovar release, with Ray-Bans in my jacket pocket, a helmet hanging on my arm, and the ticket clutched between my fingers, you probably wouldn't notice anything unusual about me.
I could be one of the many guys you see in front of the quiet pubs in the city center - the ones that play that trendy indie music - with my shaved hair and upscale casual attire fitting neatly over a clearly athletic physique.
My family is constantly delighted by my ongoing academic achievements, and even you, if you knew the person I am at work - you know, I deal with security services - wouldn't hesitate to call me a young man with his head on straight.
You might want to give me a little talking-to about my circle of... female friends... which, I admit, is a tad too large; but I see from your indulgent smile that you acknowledge the indulgences of youth and carefreeness. Besides, I assure you that if you asked those lovely girls about me, you wouldn't hear anything but praises.

The problem is another, Father. Like all the greatest sinners, my guilt consumes in secrecy; my social life hardly suffers from it at all.
There are moments when I feel something pushing against the inner walls of my chest, a beastly and uncontrollable inner urge. Then, in the silence of my bedroom, or in city traffic, with the help of an mp3 player and earbuds, my face hidden by a full-face helmet, I listen to Black Metal. Lately, in particular, I can't get this "Suomi Finland Perkele" by Impaled Nazarene out of my head.
Please, don't get angry like that. What do you say? Their message, like that of the entire genre, is explicitly blasphemous? They preach hatred against God, the human race, and even themselves?
Well, that's not exactly the classic case, Father, but broadening the discussion to all BM, I would say you've got the situation right. How can I tolerate a musical trend that feeds off people's distress and fuels its causes?
Without diminishing the enormity of my sin, I'll tell you that in the various TV specials, news, entertainment programs, and even in advertising, I see nothing different. And, in the end, better music that can touch deep chords of human instinctuality and thrives on distress, rather than cold, intellectual, trendy music that thrives on stupidity. Oh, but I notice from the sparkle in your eyes that you recognize the album in question. Yes, Father, this is indeed about the Finnish band we're talking about, active since 1990, with some of the craziest characters in the Scandinavian scene; first among them Mika Luttinen, the hallucinated singer, and frontman.
What do you say? Coarse music, "cr*p for 16-year-old metalheads"? Come on, Father, don't get warmed up now, or you'll end up spitting on your robe, which would be much more black metal than imposed by propriety. You are right a thousand times over. But you see, it may be coarse, mediocre, played with feet and sung worse, but when "Vitutksen Multihuipennus" kicks in, in that beastly turmoil of double bass, tortured guitar wails, and boisterous vocals, I feel good.

And it may seem absurd, but zipping through traffic to the notes of "Blood Is Thicker Than Water", heavy and syncopated yet epically melodic, it almost seems that the world isn't so bad. You'd think I'd almost forget about the nonconformists, the ones constantly needing to critique everything in sight to feel alive, and even the pseudo-intellectuals: those sitting at pub tables, wasting their youth on political fantasy debates just to attract a bit of attention.
Speaking of which, have you ever listened to "Steelvagina"? No? I say you should. Amidst the devastating assault of drums and the unraveling of sharp riffs, you might find yourself experiencing that wild exaltation that today is considered childish and inappropriate.

Oh, I understand your indignation. You seem to perceive a certain Nazi-like content in their imagery and lyrics? You know, the question has already been raised, and some would certainly agree with you. I'll just tell you - pardon the expression - that I don't give a d*mn. Hate is hate, and rage has no flags. If it seems so important to you to discover what uniform has been sewn onto such feelings, be my guest. Meanwhile, I prefer to inject a good dose of senseless fury into my veins while listening to "Total War - Winter War", with its military opening and killer timing. It almost seems like I can hear those rough and icy melodic lines, ridden by Mika's crazed screams... don't you hear it?

Never mind. In any case, don't get so agitated. If you could understand, I'd also tell you about the furious "Genocide", its growing pathos culminating in a chaotic explosion of guitar distortions. It's exploding in my ears right at this moment...
But you must know the worst is yet to come, although you already seem quite disturbed. Here it is, indeed. What, don't you hear it? Yet I'd swear Impaled Nazarene is playing live right here in the parish.
This, Father, is "Ghettoblaster". I wish you could appreciate the pounding cadence, the rapid succession of compelling riffs, the boisterous and malevolent voice. I wish that, for just a moment, you and everyone who would have raised the same objections in your place could feel animalistically free, wildly exalted as I do when I hear Mika spew out nonsense like "damnation inferno, designed to end it all".

So, Father, I think I've finished; let's get to the point. Will you absolve me? No? Well, no matter, I didn't hope for it, and I'll tell you that perhaps I didn't even desire it.
But allow me one last question. Do you know you're dead?

Knocks from inside the confessional; sharp sounds of bones breaking.
Footsteps. A tune whistled.
Some succession of words like "Ghettoblaster, Apocalypse, Kill" can be heard.
A door creaks on its hinges, then closes with a loud bang.
Silence.