Moon
Caduceus Chalice

The Moon, an icy celestial virgin. All of us, in one way or another, have been mesmerized by that spectral sphere, whether because we were about to make out passionately against the wall, or because we drew artistic inspiration from a kind of pure Muse. And it was inevitable that, sooner or later, even the rough grunts of Metal would notice her and attempt to incorporate her, to some extent, into their genre. Well, there are people who are a bit unclear. For instance, would you dedicate your moniker to Her if your musical proposal was technical Death (August Moon)? Or Progressive (perhaps reminiscent of Petrucci's sixth solo on "Images And Words")? Or Power? We're not quite there: these are guys who think it's a type of Swiss cheese. In my opinion, a musician who can truly claim to have captured her essence is Mr. Miasmyr (hopefully unrelated to flatulence), a mysterious misanthrope from Australia, who with "Caduceus Chalice" (2010) finally reaches his first full-length.

Forget the recent circus phenomena, good only for making some teenage girl (bimbaminchia) wet and gathering crinkly cash while trying to act "tough". This is an authentic, pulsating record, soaked in hatred from the first to the last note. Already the intro "In Shadow", dark, depressing, visceral, tainted by a fierce Ambient, hints that we have in our hands the testament of a pugnacious, deceased soul, of which someone like Xasthur would surely be proud. An implacable and agonizing Depressive Black, characterized by voices from beyond the grave, anguished sighs, rough and chilling sounds that climb through the furor ("Beneath") to finally float through the eighteen minutes of the surreal "Chalice".

The Moon is not just the one for lovers, or those yearning, wanting it all for themselves. It is also the one of the solitary chapel (Tom Warrior docet), the abandoned field of weeds, of that dark mystery that is the beyond. Towards which this record brings us closer.

So, a good start, if not excellent, with best wishes for the future: listening to remarkable albums from new names, especially when the old ones (read Morbid Angel) return spewing smoking excrements, is a true pleasure for me. Also because this one-man band possesses no small amount of talent, guiding us on the journey to the world after death. Or the one before birth, perhaps. But is there a difference, or not?