Master's Hammer
Ritual

Here you have it, ladies and gentlemen, a big plate of rustic and messy black metal, the kind so genuinely authentic that you wouldn't even find it in the worst taverns of Scampia.

The Czech Master's Hammer, who are presumed to have existed since 1983 (!!!), are a devious hallucination, giving you the impression that you're facing the seminal band; so internally ancient that you think to yourself, "damn, these guys were ahead in '86"; but in truth, this "Ritual", their debut in grand format, is from 1990, and already you think about how behind they were. One of those bands that would fit well alongside Venom, Bathory, and Hellhammer, yet they actually reveal themselves to be a group of second-world misfits, woefully late to the scene.

It wasn't easy, perhaps, to play metal within the borders of the former Soviet bloc, and for this, we forgive them, and at times even feel affection toward them, moved by compassion for their deplorable physical appearance (never have my eyes had the chance to rest upon more ugly and disagreeable figures: chubby and booze-bloated faces, dusty hair, vacant stares, Stalin-like mustaches, making the photos of the early pimpled Metallica look like fashion photography worthy of Parisian haute couture).

Indeed, there's a need to acknowledge our dismal friends, according to the Ritual, the fact of having anticipated the symphonic revolution achieved a few years later by bands like Cradle of Filth and Arcturus. This is because the worn-out and aged thrash metal endorsed by our fellows is heavily stuffed with pompous keyboards meant to render a sound morbid, which finds its strength in such malice and in an ignorance (in the sense of ignoring good manners) that truly seem from another time, even before extreme metal was also wrapped in that veneer of respectability that from the mid-nineties onward would make the effort of many hairy (soon shaved) bad boys, devoted to the heavy metal creed, artificial and less genuine.

It's pointless to do a track by track, if only not to bother myself reporting unnecessary titles in the native language, adopted in the writing of the lyrics (another originality to highlight in our timeless proposal).

However, I can state that the pieces flow varied and intricate, and shine with incredible dynamism: the technical rate is strangely more than decent; only the basics of how to exist in the world are lacking.

The belligerent and graceless screams of Storm (also on guitar, as well as the author of all pieces) are something truly chilling, vaguely recalling his majesty Attila Csihar, in the shrill chatter, as in the (few) appearances of clean vocals; the incomprehensible and anti-musical language makes it all the more angular, yet in some respects estranging. Here and there, archaic and nerve-wracking blast-beats are hinted at, often speeding up the already quite brisk pace of the pieces, which nevertheless do not disdain ineffective mid-tempos, sudden tempo changes, epic gallops or slowdowns at the limit of the most rancid and pompous doom.

The guitar (hear hear) occasionally launches into more refined phrases (evoking a bloated NWOBHM), and does not fear confronting solos that would aspire to be melodic. To complete the picture: the reverberated thumps of timpani (played by a mustached and stout bruiser, evidently more a drinking buddy than a musician), called upon (needlessly) to give that extra symphonic touch, of which, honestly, there wasn't much felt need.

In short, neither too evil to make the listener feel bad, nor too technical to make one shout a miracle, majestic without being monumental, poetic not at all, ultimately our fellows suffer from the typical naivety of those poor souls who, in good faith, squeeze all their energies, at times going beyond their means, often losing the sense of measure and good taste.

Yet this dusty "Ritual" has a damned charm; in the sad solitude of our rooms, we will find ourselves drooling with jaws overflowing with pride: the pride of belonging to the plebeian race of the most sought after and ignored metal. And it will be good for all the good connoisseurs of black metal to make it their own as soon as possible, if only to whisper to gentle maidens to conquer in rooms no longer filled with solitude: "But look how ugly these guys were, with me tonight you got lucky!"

A masterpiece from another time.