Spring afternoon, the storm is on the horizon, and the pitch-black clouds weigh heavily on the listener's mind.

Immobility reigns in this landscape; from the window of the house across the street, a light comes on for a few minutes and then goes out. The full noise of the thunder grows deeper and echoes gloomily in the ears; darkness permeates deep into the soul. Disappointments and failures return to mind as if driven by the waves of a stormy sea, waves against which there is no defense. One shakes one's head to think of something else, but in truth, one doesn’t want to think of anything else.

The first raindrops fall on the street right below you. The increasingly cold air chills the face. New memories surface, when, still wrapped in the carefreeness of childhood, we played in the rain, unaware of the water, the cold, the problems that now entangle you from which you can no longer extricate yourself.

A surge of rage rises from within and erupts furiously with a scream, a shout that no one will hear. Then, solitude becomes complete, no comforting illusion brushes the mind, leaving room only for shattered dreams, seen as a series of slides one after the other: failures related to professional life, interpersonal relationships with family members, friends, and Her, all bear witness to one’s complete ineptitude. The insignificance of life is flaunted in your face; every action, every gesture, every feeling reveals themselves for what they truly are: infinitesimal particles of a life whose laws are impossible to grasp, a life where one can't do anything but attempt to navigate laboriously to avoid sinking, like a paper boat in an endless ocean of pitch black. However, the shipwreck is inevitable; suddenly, everything becomes black, and you let yourself fall, infinitely into the infinite.

As time passes, the darkness of the abyss and all the previously seen images fade, dissipating to leave space only for a gray and senseless bitterness, born not only from the reevaluation of one’s past but also from the awareness that, although the worst is now over, this re-evaluation will happen again, until the end; a word, a sensation, a taste, a smell, a person thought lost in the many meanders of the labyrinth of existence will be enough to resurface all the thoughts just dismissed.

One last glance is cast to the sky, which seems also to have shed all its tears; a ray of light breaks through the clouds, illuminating the end of the street, right there at the intersection beyond which, despite the black building that traps it after a few meters, it seems to stretch to infinity.

This is "The Sullen Sulcus," Mourning Beloveth, 2002.

In that year, the Irish certainly didn't invent a new genre; this is a classic death doom CD: slow and very heavy riffs, growled vocals alternating with clean lines, almost infinite cadenced tempos. No frills, no instrument or technique that breaks the leaden progression of each song, just pure death doom metal.

Nothing more to say.

Tracklist and Videos

01   The Words That Crawled (12:25)

02   It Almost Looked Human (07:21)

03   The Insolent Caul (10:08)

04   Narcissistic Funeral (13:33)

05   My Sullen Sulcus (11:23)

06   Anger's Steaming Arrows (10:38)

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