Minsk
The Crash And The Draw

But why do I even bother writing this review if the Apocalypse is near?

Yet, I feel like I must. A bit like the elderly veteran war hero who, at yet another battle, knows all is lost and is about to die, handing victory to the enemies, but still doesn't give up and continues to fight until the end.

In debaserian terms, I would say this is the right metaphor for a reviewer who is saturated up to his neck with post-metal, post-core, post-everything albums and, without knowing how or why, still manages to be amazed by new albums and finds the strength to talk about them by choosing the right words (or what seem such to him).

But I'm digressing and the space is already expanding more than it should. I know I shouldn't digress, but it's the Minsk's fault for confusing me. I wanted to write a review as “normal” in size as possible, avoiding the usual verbosity that now characterizes me, but I already know I’ll end up writing a brick of a text this time too, so there's no use in fooling myself. So let’s write this nice review and try not to get too carried away.

Let’s start with some basic adjectives, just to give you an idea: “The Crash And The Draw” is suffocating as a flatulence contest at the Pasta and Beans Festival, choking as a snorkeling tour without a snorkel in an oil puddle, gigantic as the lasagna portion your grandma gives you at Christmas when she hasn't seen you for over a year, monolithic as the sum of all the boulders that fell on Wile E. Coyote's head from 1949 to present day.

But as bizarre or flamboyant as these adjectives may sound, the truth is that there's no way to effectively describe an album like this. The only thing to do in such cases is to arm yourself with patience and face the Beast, properly listening to the entire album, song by song, at least 4 or 5 times in a row, until the obstacles become increasingly crumbly and the initial effort transforms into overwhelming ecstasy.

Because the Minsk, in here, build a true “world” of apocalyptic notes, made of monstrous and rampant guitars, of ancestral melodies that perfectly blend with sonic annihilation, in a fluid and uniform whole that, despite being daunting, ultimately can do nothing but enchant and conquer anyone brave enough to confront it.

The depth of this album is something formidable. Are you familiar with the 3 previous Minsk albums? Well, take the enveloping darkness of “Out Of A Center...,” the glimpses of pure genius in “The Ritual Fires of Abandonment,” and the lysergic reflections of “With Echoes In The Movement Of Stone,” blend it all together, and you might still not reach the depth of our heroes' fourth album.

Because after all, “The Crash and the Draw” is an album that could warrant a 100-page essay, yet can also be described in just 5 words:

THE BEST ALBUM BY MINSK.

If we analyze those 5 words, we notice two key elements that together provide a sense to the entire construct: “the best album” states that every previously created album by the band in question is somehow “inferior” to what is being reviewed, hence the quality must necessarily be high, while “by Minsk” introduces the basic concept, namely the presence of one of the greatest post-metal bands currently in circulation, already the creator of 3 stellar albums, and the only one that can actually boast the coveted title of “the true heirs of Neurosis.”

Then again, let's face it, even though I've found the last effort by Neurosis (“Honor Found In Decay,” 2012, Editor's Note) to be a very fine album and a Great Album worthy of its place in Oakland's combo discography, it is now clear to everyone that ideas are beginning to lack a bit and that Scott Kelly & Company feel a bit entitled to produce some tracks more out of craftsmanship than inspiration.

But it's normal for it to be so. As much as the Neurosis are masters, they are still people like all of us, and we can't expect musicians belonging to the human race, after a good 10 studio albums, to continue producing masterpieces and brilliant ideas for their entire lives.

This consideration, however, does not touch the Minsk, who are “only” at their fourth album, and who can thus consider themselves mature enough while still being fresh: add to it the fact that the line-up has been renewed and that Sanford Parker is the producer (Buried At Sea, Corrections House) and it’s easy to imagine how what has been published can finally be the work of consecration. And indeed it is: as in any proper natural selection, while Scott Kelly's band “finds honor in decay,” Chris Bennett's is more buoyant and creative than it's ever been.

No surprise, then, that it's up to them to take the sceptre and continue to put heart where Scott starts to put a bit too much head.

From the initial “To The Initiate,” we realize it. An atmosphere as uneasy as few introduces a slapping of distorted guitars and enveloping arpeggios, from which emerges a shamanic chorus never so convinced and dilated. You can feel new air, a freshness and renewal atmosphere, and the inspiration of our fellows becomes clear when the guitars make their reappearance, supported by a pounding bass that crushes everything like a tank. Then a fierce acceleration, a powerful voice, and riffs that grow increasingly abrasive and convincing as the track progresses. And this heaviness still manages to preserve the attention to atmospheric arpeggios that has greatly contributed to the success of previous albums, with a resumption of the melodic voice that is more than appropriate.

The disturbing trail from the amplifiers indicates that the track has ended. We're just at the beginning, and after one track we already feel fulfilled and satisfied. It's been 12 minutes, yet it seems like an eternity (of pleasure) has passed.

The album is 76 minutes long for 11 tracks, so do as you please.

With “Within And Without,” we finally realize how the ace up their sleeve of our fellows is precisely being able to write steamroller songs that maintain, despite their complexity, an underlying fluidity and smoothness that prevents pausing your ears. More than once I've found it difficult to face certain tracks, undoubtedly daunting at first listens, yet the pleasure experienced in this flow of guitars is such that you wish it would never end. And so, between enveloping atmospheres and riffs that weigh a few thousand tons per note, the second track also flows like a cold beer on a hot summer night.

But the real heart of the album remains “Onward Procession,” a suite of over 20 minutes made up of 4 tracks that perfectly summarize the album's essence: contrasting emotions, sweat pouring to the ground, lysergic litanies, and dark atmospheres, solemn distortions, and sensory destruction. But most of all, pain, that visceral pain that was the daily bread of Neurosis during the “Through Silver In Blood” era and that now seems to have become such a rare commodity in today’s musical landscape.

“Conjunction” is a splendid post-rock track, where the Minsk construct a melodic carpet that allows us to catch our breath. A small break for our tortured senses.

“The Way Is Through” seems to be the natural continuation of the previous track, boasting a melodic sensitivity that we never thought could belong to Chris and company's DNA. However, our fellows never disappoint, and even this time, we see new articulated and tentacular riffs depart, feeling fresh as those hurled at our heads in the first track. I don't know who gives them this strength and inspiration: it seems that post-metal, after this album, has nothing left to teach anyone.

Another pause with “To You There Is No End,” a short tribal piece that introduces the ancestral riffs of “To The Garish Remembrance Of Failure,” constructed with a maniacal attention to detail and the melodic power of individual notes. This track most of all seems tied to the old Minsk, yet even here we note a decidedly greater maturity in the construction of the riffs. A continuous up and down sucks the listener into killer architectures studied in the smallest details, and it feels like being thrown into the cosmos and finding oneself being chewed by some black hole.

By now, we are exhausted. This black ocean has crushed us and we're still not sure if we've come out unscathed. Yet it's not over, because there's still one last 10-minute track, and in the opinion of this writer, it is indeed the best track of the lot.

“When The Walls Fell” is not merely a worthy conclusion to an epochal album: it is the track that gives life to a new course in Minsk’s career, paving the way for both daring experimentation and the accessibility of more fluid and well-blended structures. Imagine what it means to build a complex, immense, and powerful album, yet manage to keep it accessible and never let boredom overflow instead of pleasure. This is what Minsk manages to do, and this track highlights it perfectly. Exciting, sweet as the best post-rock (you can almost hear small echoes of Baroness), until an explosion of riffs that feels like the natural continuation of the melody woven so far. But the simple melody doesn't stop here, no, it grows further, until it becomes epic and feeds on the listener's emotions, in a structure that keeps changing and even touches stoner rock, before losing itself in an ocean of guitars that slowly buries the album and seems to whisper to it “rest in peace now.”

I close this review with a final consideration, and I ask anyone who wishes to approach this album to bear it well in mind.

“The Crash And The Draw” should not simply be listened to: it must be understood, dissected, savored drop by drop of blood, pain, and passion.

Because it is a masterpiece and, as such, deserves to be approached with due respect.

Happy Apocalypse to everyone.