Scorpion Wind
Heaven Sent

A little angel playing the accordion on a pile of bones and skulls...

Behind this curious cover and the mysterious Scorpion Wind project hide the usual suspects of the apocalyptic scene: Douglas P. (guitars and keyboards), Boyd Rice (vocals), and John Murphy (percussions).

Recorded in various sessions between 1995 and 1996 in Adelaide (by now the headquarters of the exiled Pearce), "Heaven Sent" indeed reflects what Death in June were at the time (those of "Rose Clouds of Holocaust", just to make it clear). But, to avoid misunderstandings, it's worth clarifying that we are actually facing Rice's typical spoken album. Therefore, those who poorly digested sulfurous blocks like "Music, Martinis and Misanthropy" (Boyd Rice and Friends), or "Alarm Agents" (Death in June & Boyd Rice), should stay away.

"Heaven Sent", less gloomy and belligerent than the first, and decidedly less apocalyptic than the second, is a bizarre journey into Boyd Rice's visionary mind: a sort of misanthropic aperitif that finds us slumped at the counter of a squalid tavern, sipping Martinis and rambling, with bitterness and disenchantment, about the meaning of History, the World, Life.

Rice, as those who know him are aware, is not a fragile minstrel grappling with his own fragmented self, but rather a braggart fleeing from the world: between irony and polemical intents, Rice's monologue takes on the tones of a chat with a close friend, where insinuations, winks, and nods are plenty.

Less explicit than usual, in "Heaven Sent", Rice has the opportunity to reveal the most intimate and passionate side of his character. And if at times the album indeed manages to fascinate, throughout its duration an evident limitation is perceptible: the desire to communicate while disregarding the listener (which isn't even communicating, if you look closely!). So we are left with two possibilities: leave the drunk behind, bored, halfway through the babble. Or, if you have time to waste and are equally drunk, stay with him and give in to his nonsense. And to the intoxication of alcohol!

The listening thus flows without particular jolts, riding the wave of Douglas P.'s guitar and Rice's suggestive verses. The undeniable charm of certain atmospheres, however, will eventually give way to boredom and fatigue.

It actually requires more attempts to grasp the myriad nuances hidden behind the apparent simplicity of the pieces: the wordplay, the hypnotic flow of the lyrics, Murphy's imaginative drumming, the lavish string arrangements by Pearce himself, the contributions of various Timothy Jenn (guitar and keyboards), Campbell Finley (trumpet), and Richard Leviathan (percussions).

If the dances open rather anonymously with "Love Love Love (Equilibrium)", a majestic initiation piece, with "Preserve Thy Loneliness" it will be hard not to be captivated by the charm of Rice-thought, while with "In Vino Veritas" you might even find yourself feeling affection for that rascal Rice.

The tracks follow one another quite homogeneously, enriched here and there by timely impromptu flashes (the xylophone in "Paradise of Perfection", the menacing orchestrations and ethnic percussions in "Roasted Cadaver", the tension in the violins of "The Cruelty of the Heavens", the sly atmospheres of "There is no More Sleep" enhanced by piano and trumpet). These flashes, however, will not lift a prolix, overly long work (the jest lasts a whole hour!), where the successful ideas (which are not lacking) are inevitably deflated by Rice's monotonous chatter.

Reaching the eighth track, "Some Colossus", will thus be a real effort: an effort that will be amply rewarded by the engaging final tracks that, in a certain sense, are worth the price of admission.

Because once the stammering pace of the martial "Some Colossus" is interrupted, and Rice's voice is left in the void, the guitar and violin attack of "The Path of the Cross" gives true goosebumps: the track recalls the most damnably scenic Death in June, and in its solitary pace, it touches emotional peaks that the beginners of apocalyptic folk will never reach (NEVER!).

But the true pinnacle of the album is the subsequent "Never Forget", 14 minutes of dreamlike ecstasy in which Scorpion Wind's music greatly resembles the majestic evolutions of an album like "Disintegration" by The Cure: Rice's sigh, which repeats the track's title to exhaustion, often emerges from the languor of the guitars, the romantic textures of the keyboards, the dreamy peals of the percussion.

What to say in conclusion: this "Heaven Sent" is a spat among friends, an insignificant parenthesis even for the most hardcore fans of Death in June.

After all, it's evident that the authors themselves didn't take themselves too seriously, as you can tell from the photos portraying them in grim poses, caught in a tender embrace with a peaceful koala!